THE   LIFE   OF  A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

AND  OTHER  PAPERS 


THE 

LIFE  OF  A  LITTLE  COLLEGE 

AND  OTHER  PAPERS 


BY 


ARCHIBALD  MAcMECHAN 
y) 


BOSTON   AND   NEW   YORK 
HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 


1914 


COPYRIGHT,    1914,    BY    ARCHIBALD    MACMECHAN 
ALL   RIGHTS    RESERVED 

Published  October  1314 


To  DOCTOR  "EBEN"  MACKAY 

Although  daily  intercourse  for  twenty  years 
affords  the  amplest  warrant  for  pronouncing  on 
a  man  s  character,  I  find  that  the  conventions 
which  hedge  about  a  dedication  debar  me  from 
proclaim  ing  my  opinion  of  yours.  Still  one  hint 
I  will  hazard.  Had  Bunyan  known  you,  he  could 
have  added  some  finer  touches  to  his  portrait  of 
Faithful.  For  twenty  years  we  have  worked 
side  by  side  in  harmony ;  and  now,  in  the  in 
stitution  we  serve,  we  begin  to  see  what  wefore- 
saiv.  The  generous  Little  College  lias  given  me 
much,  —  work,  with  time  to  tliink,  bread,  and 
a  loyal  friend;  and  so,  in  recognition  of  these 
great  gifts,  I  desire  to  honour  myself  by  associ 
ating —  without  your  knowledge  or  consent  — 
these  little  college  essays  and  your  name. 


297635 


CONTENTS 

THE  LITE  OF  A  LITTLE  COLLEGE i 

LITTLE  COLLEGE  GIRLS 37 

THE  VANITY  OF  TRAVEL 53 

TENNYSON  AS  ARTIST 83 

BROWNING'S  WOMEN  — THE  SURFACE    .      .      .      .121 

THIS  is  OUR  MASTER 141 

CHILD  OF  THE  BALLADS 165 

"THE  BEST  SEA-STORY  EVER  WRITTEN"    .      .      .179 
EVANGELINE  AND  THE  REAL  ACADIANS        .      .      .  199 

EVERYBODY'S  ALICE 233 

VIRGIL 273 


NOTE.  Several  of  these  essays  have  already  been  published  in  The  Atlantic 
Monthly,  The  Independent,  and  The  University  Magazine.  By  the  kind  per 
mission  of  D.  C.  Heath  and  Co.,  I  am  enabled  to  reprint  part  of  my  introduc 
tion  to  Select  Poems  by  Tennyson,  copyright,  1907. 


THE   LIFE   OF  A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 


THE  LIFE 
OF  A  LITTLE  COLLEGE 


may  appear  a  certain  degree  of  imperti- 
nence  in  a  college  which  is  neither  old  nor  famous 
venturing  to  have  a  history  of  its  own.  But  history  is 
largely  a  matter  of  right  perception  into  the  real  nature 
and  true  proportions  of  things.  All  education  is  a 
movement  of  the  race  towards  the  light,  and  wherever 
men  have  organized  to  spread  the  light,  there  history  has 
been  made.  Only  the  seeing  eye  is  needed,  and  the  un 
derstanding  heart,  and  the  diligent  pen  to  set  the  story 
down.  The  claim  of  the  little  unknown  college  to  recog 
nition  by  the  world  is  not  absurd,  for  its  history  is  the 
history  of  an  idea. 

For  that  idea  a  romantic  background  was  provided  by 
the  alarms  and  splendours  of  a  world-wide  war.  The 
nations  took  sides  with  or  against  the  Corsican,  and  the 
years  were  filled  with  battles  by  land  and  sea.  One 
stanch  little  British  province,  which  had  stood  fast 
when  her  sister  colonies  revolted,  now  bore  her  share 
of  loss  and  glory  with  the  Motherland.  The  provincial 
capital,  founded  as  a  military  necessity,  has  seen  three 


4       LIFE   OF  A  LITTLE   COLLEGE 

great  wars.  Though  more  than  once  in  danger  of  assault 
and  capture,  she  has  remained  a  maiden  city.  In  war 
time  the  harbour  was  constantly  filled  with  ships,  and 
the  streets  were  thronged  with  soldiers,  coming  and  going 
on  their  divers  errands.  Smart  frigates  and  dashing 
privateers  made  port  almost  daily  with  their  captures. 
Prize  money  flowed  in  rivers,  and  civic  life  was  a  rich, 
gay  pageant.  In  the  last  months  of  the  war,  a  small  ex 
pedition,  so  many  transports,  with  details  of  so  many 
regiments,  escorted  by  so  many  men-of-war  sailed  out  of 
the  harbour  one  day;  destination,  as  the  newspaper  said, 
unknown.  Their  destination  was  a  hostile  port  which 
they  took  without  much  ado  and  held  and  ruled  for 
more  than  half  a  year.  When  peace  was  declared,  the 
forces  came  back  with  some  ten  thousand  pounds  ster 
ling  in  the  military  chest.  That  sum  of  money  won  in 
war  formed  the  original  endowment  of  the  little  college. 
For  more  than  a  twelvemonth,  the  money  lay  un 
touched,  until  the  man  came  upon  the  scene  with  the 
idea.  He  was  a  Scottish  earl  who  had  been  a  schoolmate 
of  Sir  Walter's  at  Edinburgh  and  had  attained  high 
distinction  in  the  army.  He  had  served  his  king  with 
honour  in  every  quarter  of  the  globe,  and,  now  that  the 
Corsican  was  safe  in  St.  Helena,  he  was  made  governor 
of  the  province  of  Ultima  Thule.  On  his  arrival  there, 
he  found  the  sum  of  ten  thousand  pounds  in  the  treas 
ury,  without  a  definite  object  to  expend  it  on.  The 


LIFE   OF  A   LITTLE   COLLEGE       5 

needs  of  the  little  province  were  many.  It  needed  roads ; 
and  as  continuous  war  had  been  the  rule  for  more  than  a 
generation,  it  was  supposed  to  need  a  highly  organized 
militia  to  be  ready  for  the  next  rupture  of  peace.  But 
what  this  soldier  decided  that  the  raw,  struggling  prov 
ince  chiefly  needed  was  not  good  roads,  or  a  canal,  or 
a  trained  citizen  soldiery,  or  a  complete  survey  of  her 
unexplored  domain,  but  college  education  on  a  new 
principle.  It  was  a  strange  idea  to  find  lodgment  in  the 
brain  of  a  military  man. 

This  was  all  the  stranger,  as  Ultima  Thule  possessed 
one  college  already.  The  province  had  been  given  its 
essential  character  by  the  Tories  who  had  been  driven 
out  of  the  Thirteen  Colonies,  when  they  set  up  for 
themselves.  The  first  thing  these  exiled  loyalists  did 
was  to  provide  for  religion,  literature,  and  education  by 
ordaining  a  bishop,  founding  a  monthly  magazine,  and 
establishing  a  college.  On  this  last  they  imposed  the 
model  of  Oxford,  as  they  could  not  conceive  of  any 
better,  or  indeed  of  any  other,  system.  One  fine  old 
crusted  Tory,  an  Oriel  man,  by  the  way,  insisted  upon 
the  Laudian  statutes  going  into  force.  These  enjoined 
on  all  students  residence  within  the  college,  attendance 
at  chapel  as  a  matter  of  course,  subscription  to  the 
Thirty-nine  Articles  on  entrance  and  on  receiving  a 
degree,  and  abstinence  from  seditious  meetings  and 
dissenting  conventicles.  The  comedy  of  the  situation 


6       LIFE   OF   A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

lay  in  the  fact  that  the  faithful,  who  were  entitled  to  the 
privileges  of  higher  education,  were  few,  and  that  the 
college  was  supported  by  public  money  drawn  from 
the  pockets  of  those  very  dissenters  who  were  excluded 
from  it  by  the  constitution  of  the  college. 

It  was  not  a  military  problem,  but  the  soldier-gover 
nor  solved  it  by  creating  a  new  college  based  on  the 
broad  principle  of  "  toleration."  No  religious  test  was  to 
be  demanded  of  either  professors  or  students;  the  classes 
were  to  be  open  to  all  sects  and  confessions;  there  was 
no  provision  for  residence;  students  were  free  to  lodge 
where  they  pleased;  the  townsman  or  the  military  officer 
might  pay  his  fee  and  attend  a  single  course  of  lectures 
without  the  restraints  of  a  discipline  designed  for  boys. 
Instead  of  being  planted  in  a  small  country  town,  the 
new  college  was  to  be  in  the  capital,  in  the  centre  of 
things,  thus  anticipating  the  modern  rule  for  the  most 
desirable  location  of  seats  of  learning.  The  new  institu 
tion  was  to  be  in  fact  a  little  Edinburgh,  as  its  rival  was 
a  little  Oxford.  So  the  forces  were  set  in  array  over 
against  each  other,  and  the  battle  was  joined.  On  the 
one  side  the  aristocratic  ideal,  conservative,  exclusive; 
on  the  other,  the  democratic  ideal,  liberal,  comprehen 
sive.  Nearly  a  century  has  passed,  the  battle  has  been 
long  and  hard;  but  the  victory  of  the  liberal  idea  is 
decisive  and  overwhelming.  Even  the  conservative 
college  has  been  forced  to  accept  it. 


LIFE   OF   A   LITTLE   COLLEGE       7 

For  endowment  of  the  new  college,  the  governor  ad 
vised  the  use  of  the  unexpended  ten  thousand  pounds 
in  the  military  chest.  So  the  college  was  founded  by  a 
soldier  with  money  taken  in  war,  and  it  had  to  fight  for 
its  life.  It  is  not  strange  that  in  due  time  such  a  college 
should  bring  forth  soldiers  and  have  a  war  record. 
Fundator  noster  was  a  small  man  physically;  his  title  was 
the  Earl  of  Lyttil,  being  the  ninth  bearer  of  that  distinc 
tion;  and  so  it  was  all  in  a  concatenation  accordingly 
that  the  institution  he  founded  should  be  known  as  the 
Lyttil  College,  as  it  is  unto  this  day.  All  the  alumni  are 
proud  to  be  known  as  Lyttilites  and  to  wear  the  ancient 
cognizance  of  the  noble  earl,  an  eagle,  proper,  displayed, 
on  a  field  argent. 

Dolcefar,  the  capital  of  Ultima  Thule,  was  founded  as 
a  naval  and  military  station  to  counterpoise  another 
colonial  city  of  "our  sweet  enemy  France,"  a  strong  city, 
once,  of  ten  thousand  inhabitants,  which  has  been  a 
ruin,  where  fishermen  dry  their  nets,  for  more  than  a 
hundred  years.  Seated  beside  her  wonderful  triple  har 
bour,  the  provincial  capital  was  laid  out  by  military  engi 
neers  in  accordance  with  the  mediaeval  idea  of  a  fortified 
town.  It  must  be  compact  for  the  greater  ease  of  de 
fence.  In  the  very  centre  was  a  square  which  is  known 
to  this  day  as  the  "  Grand  Parade."  Here  the  ancient 
British  Grenadiers  were  mustered  and  drilled;  here 
guard  was  mounted  daily  with  stately  ceremony;  here 


8      LIFE  OF  A  LITTLE  COLLEGE 

the  early  provincial  laws  were  published  by  the  provost- 
marshal  after  notice  by  beat  of  drum.  For  a  century 
and  more  it  was  the  heart  of  the  quaint  provincial  town, 
always  full  of  colour  and  movement.  And  here  was  built 
the  first  home  of  the  Lyttil  College.  It  was  not  a  large 
building,  but  a  certain  simple,  austere  dignity  was 
impressed  —  who  knows  how?  —  upon  the  stone  and 
mortar.  Some  Scottish  architect  made  the  college  as 
Scottish  in  character  as  its  founder. 

There  was  one  great  day  to  be  marked  for  evermore 
with  white  in  the  calendar  of  the  Lyttil  College,  the 
day  the  corner-stone  was  laid  of  the  old  building.  In 
the  early  nineteenth  century,  the  mediaeval  instinct  and 
capacity  for  pageants  had  not  yet  died  out;  and  it  was 
still  possible  to  make  a  civic  function  picturesque  and 
impressive.  This  was  a  grand  occasion.  The  red-coats, 
with  colours  flying  and  music  playing,  made  a  lane 
from  Government  House  to  the  Parade,  through  which 
passed  in  stately  procession  His  Excellency  the  Gover 
nor,  accompanied  by  the  civil  magistrates,  his  glittering 
staff,  and  a  train  of  army  and  naval  officers  in  scarlet 
and  blue  and  gold.  The  grandmaster  of  the  Masons  met 
the  procession  at  the  southeast  angle  of  the  low,  rising 
walls.  Christian  prayers  were  said,  the  stone  was  low 
ered  into  its  appointed  place,  and  duly  tapped  with  a 
silver  trowel  in  the  hand  of  the  noble  earl.  Then  coins 
were  deposited  in  the  cavity,  which  was  thereafter 


LIFE   OF   A   LITTLE   COLLEGE       9 

sealed  by  the  identical  brass  plate  which  is  preserved  in 
the  present  library  of  the  Lyttil  College.  Symbolic  corn 
and  wine  and  oil  were  poured  over  the  stone  in  pagan 
libation,  fine  speeches  were  made,  and  then  the  good 
people  dispersed  and  left  the  new  seminary  for  the 
higher  branches  of  learning  to  struggle  for  existence. 
For  more  than  forty  years  the  history  of  the  Lyttil 
College  was  the  history  of  a  building.  These  were  its 
Dark  Ages,  during  which,  except  for  one  brief  interval, 
it  was  used  for  every  possible  purpose  except  the  one  for 
which  it  was  designed.  A  museum,  a  debating-club,  a 
mechanics'  institute,  a  post-office,  a  music-master  and 
his  pianos,  an  infant  school,  an  art  club,  a  hospital,  and  a 
pastry-cook's  shop  all  found  shelter  at  different  times 
beneath  its  hospitable  roof.  The  post-office  had  quar 
ters  there  for  years  and  paid  a  goodly  rent,  but  the 
infants'  school,  the  mechanics'  institute,  and  the  mu 
seum  got  house-room  free.  The  imagination  is  taken 
with  the  tale  of  the  art  club,  as  related  by  an  original 
member,  a  gentleman  of  the  old  school,  who  wore  a 
neckcloth  and  was  in  his  heyday  in  the  thirties  of  the 
nineteenth  century.  It  consisted  of  about  twenty  ladies 
and  gentlemen  from  the  town  and  garrison,  who  united 
for  the  cultivation  of  painting,  and  it  was  by  no  means 
a  mere  pretense  or  a  refuge  for  fashionable  idlers.  In 
deed,  the  productions  of  the  old  gentleman's  brush, 
which  used  to  hang  on  the  walls  of  his  low-ceilinged 


io     LIFE   OF   A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

study,  amply  confirmed  his  words.  The  governor,  a 
Waterloo  veteran,  himself  an  artist  of  no  mean  ability, 
was  the  president  of  the  club  as  long  as  it  lasted.  Every 
spring  these  daring  amateurs  gave  a  public  exhibition  of 
their  work. 

It  must  have  been  a  very  pleasant  club ;  the  old  gentle 
man's  recollections  of  it  were  rose-coloured.  The  mem 
bers  were  chosen  with  the  greatest  care,  the  patron  was 
the  King's  representative  and  held  a  little  court  in 
Government  House.  Between  the  lights,  when  it  was 
impossible  to  work,  the  pretty  girls  and  titled  ladies 
organized  impromptu  dances,  for  there  was  a  piano  in 
one  of  the  rooms  and  orderlies  were  always  in  attendance 
to  shift  the  easels  and  the  stools.  It  lasted  three  years, 
but  in  the  fourth  there  was  no  show  of  pictures  in  May, 
no  aristocratic  patron,  no  society.  That  was  the  terrible 
cholera  year,  when  the  air  was  thick  with  the  smoke  of 
tar-barrels  burning  on  every  street-corner  to  stay  the 
plague,  and  the  fear  of  sudden,  agonizing  death  stared 
every  one  in  the  face.  The  Lyttil  College  was  turned 
into  a  hospital;  and  instead  of  painting  officers  and  danc 
ing  Lady  Marys,  the  rooms  were  crowded  with  ghastly 
sufferers  and  their  helpless,  terrified  attendants.  The 
ambulance,  with  its  green  cotton  hood,  was  always  busy, 
bearing  the  smitten  to  the  wards,  or  taking  corpses 
away  for  hasty  burial.  As  many  as  eighteen  dead  bodies 
would  be  carried  out  of  a  sultry  August  morning  beneath 


LIFE   OF  A  LITTLE   COLLEGE     n 

the  pompous  Latin  inscription  on  the  three  stone  slabs 
surmounting  the  doorway. 

In  due  time  the  Dark  Ages  came  to  an  end,  and  the 
Renaissance  of  the  Lyttil  College  followed,  as  spring 
follows  winter.  Various  attempts  had  been  made  to 
operate  the  college  as  a  college,  but  they  ended  in  failure, 
and  the  governors  were  forced  time  and  again  to  close  its 
doors  and  " allow  the  funds  to  accumulate."  This  sad 
period  is  one  wearisome  tale  of  incompetency,  detrac 
tion,  plot,  counterplot,  petty  provincial  jealousies,  legis 
lative  stupidities,  and  faction  fights.  If  a  college  could 
be  killed  by  mismanagement,  negligence,  and  spite,  the 
Lyttil  College  would  now  be  only  a  name  on  a  grave 
stone.  But  the  liberal  idea  outlived  its  enemies.  At  last 
a  few  wise  strong  men,  who  believed  that  union  was 
strength,  rallied  warring  sects  to  its  support,  and  set  it 
definitely  on  its  feet.  The  reorganization  merely  ex 
panded  the  original  plan  now  nearly  half  a  century  old ; 
and  since  then  the  growth  of  the  college  has  been  steady 
and  strong.  Like  all  hitherto  discovered  colleges,  it 
suffers  from  lack  of  funds.  At  one  time,  the  statistical 
don  proved  beyond  a  doubt  that  at  a  given  date  the 
college  must  close  its  doors.  But  just  in  the  nick  of  time 
the  Benefactor  made  his  appearance.  He  was  an  ex 
patriated  provincial  who  was  making  a  fortune  in  the 
neighbouring  republic.  He  endowed  professorships  and 
offered  bursaries  and  scholarships  to  promising  students. 


12     LIFE  OF  A  LITTLE  COLLEGE 

Such  munificence  had  never  been  known  before  in  the 
country.  His  example  was  followed  by  other  wealthy 
men,  whose  gifts  established  the  Lyttil  College  firmly 
and  for  ever.  There  was  no  more  talk  of  closing  doors. 
The  college  grew  in  numbers,  strength,  and  reputation. 
Soon  the  old  building  grew  too  small  for  the  students 
and  a  new  site  had  to  be  sought  on  an  old  camping- 
ground  freckled  with  the  circles  where  bell-tents  had 
stood.  The  prophets  declared  that  at  last  the  Lyttil 
College  had  found  an  ample  and  final  home.  Within 
twenty  years  it  has  outgrown  its  present  domicile,  and 
has  been  forced  to  find  another.  On  the  outskirts  of 
Dolcefar,  a  large  estate  has  been  bought  and  a  building 
scheme  covering  fifty  years  has  been  mapped  out.  The 
Lyttil  College  deserves  its  name  no  longer.  By  a  strange 
coincidence  the  new  site  was  once  the  property  of  the 
very  graduate  of  Oxford  who,  by  forcing  his  obnoxious 
restrictions  on  the  old  college,  made  the  Lyttil  College 
possible.  It  still  bears  the  name  of  his  family  seat  in 
England.  Thus  does  the  whirligig  of  time  bring  in  its 
revenges. 

n 

When  the  Lyttil  College  experienced  its  Renaissance, 
new-fangled  notions  of  education  were  not  in  the  air.  It 
seemed  a  natural  thing  that  learning  should  be  under 
clerical  control ;  and  no  one  had  thought  of  questioning 


LIFE   OF  A   LITTLE  COLLEGE     13 

the  value  of  classics  and  mathematics  as  the  indispen 
sable  basis  of  all  mental  training.  Classics  and  mathe 
matics  were  the  twin  pillars  of  the  Lyttil  College's  old 
curriculum,  and  the  two  scholars  from  Dublin  and  from 
Aberdeen  who  professed  those  subjects  gave  the  place 
standards,  tradition,  reputation.  If  such  a  statement 
seems  too  pretentious  in  the  case  of  an  unknown  "  semi 
nary  for  the  higher  branches  of  learning,"  it  must  be 
remembered  that  several  thousands  of  Lyttilites  have 
sojourned  within  its  walls  and  regard  it  with  feelings 
that  are  worth  considering,  such  as  affection,  respect, 
and  admiration.  The  men  who  could  implant  such  feel 
ings  in  generation  after  generation  of  their  disciples  are 
also  worth  considering,  especially  as  they  were  the  last 
of  their  race.  Later  ages  should  be  told  what  they  were 
like.  Neither  the  Lyttil  College  nor  any  other  will  ever 
see  the  mate  of  the  old  professor  of  mathematics. 

He  was  always  old.  When  he  died  at  his  post  after 
thirty-eight  years'  continuous  sendee,  the  students 
buried  him  from  the  college  and  bore  his  coffin  shoulder 
high  to  the  grave.  In  his  honour  they  produced  a  special 
number  of  the  college  paper,  filled  with  tributes  to  his 
worth  from  those  who  knew  and  loved  him.  There  were 
also  pictures  exhumed  of  him  at  various  ages,  and  the 
very  earliest  seemed  old.  Something  was  due  to  the  se 
date  clerical  garb  of  his  youth,  something  also  to  the 
natural  gravity  and  strong  North-country  features,  and 


i4     LIFE   OF  A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

something  to  his  high  conception  of  the  teacher's  office. 
At  the  same  time,  he  was  always  young;  his  mind  never 
grew  old.  His  genial  spirits  never  suffered  decay.  Until 
the  end,  his  humour  and  his  somewhat  caustic  wit 
brightened  the  dullest  meeting  of  the  Senatus  Academi- 
cus.  Far  on  in  life,  he  kept  up  his  old  athletic  habits, 
spending  his  vacations  beside  his  favourite  trout  stream, 
although  the  fish  were  strangely  few  and  hard  to  capture 
in  the  later  years.  When  his  step  became  very  heavy 
and  slow,  he  would  still,  with  a  smile,  maintain  himself 
in  case  to  dance  the  Highland  fling. 

He  was  a  man  of  varied  accomplishments;  and  per 
haps  he  did  not  underestimate  his  skill  in  any  one  of 
them.  An  assiduous  brother  of  the  angle,  a  scientific 
exponent  of  long  whist,  a  solver  of  chess  problems,  a 
performer  on  the  flute,  at  his  own  parties,  he  professed 
himself  capable  of  giving  academic  instruction  on  all 
these  branches  of  learning.  Mathematics  were,  of 
course,  his  pastime,  but  he  was  equally  proficient  in 
classics.  At  one  time  he  made  a  practice  of  opening  the 
first  class  in  the  morning  with  a  Latin  prayer  of  his  own 
composition;  he  would  turn  nonsense  verses  into  Vir- 
gilian  hexameters  for  the  amusement  of  a  younger  col 
league;  he  was  ready  to  converse  with  a  French  priest 
whom  he  met  on  his  travels,  or  with  a  like-minded  don 
in  the  tongue  of  Cicero  for  hours  at  a  time.  When  he 
went  a-fisMng,  he  was  wont  to  put  a  Greek  play  in 


LIFE  OF  A   LITTLE   COLLEGE     15 

his  pocket.  Once,  when  the  Professor  of  the  More 
Humane  Letters  broke  his  leg  while  skating,  and  was 
housed  for  weeks,  the  Professor  of  Mathematics  con 
ducted  his  classes  in  Greek  and  Latin  with  great 
applause.  When  at  the  last  he  was  suddenly  struck 
down  in  the  little  house  where  he  lived  alone  with 
one  servant,  friends  coming  in  to  care  for  him  found 
on  the  study-table  his  wrell-worn  Greek  Testament, 
open  at  the  fifteenth  chapter  of  the  Gospel  according 
to  St.  John. 

Once  a  priest,  always  a  priest.  The  old  professor 
began  his  career  as  a  minister  of  the  Kirk  of  Scotland; 
and  in  his  early  days  at  the  Lyttil  College  he  was  in 
constant  demand  as  a  preacher.  Composed  slowly, 
with  great  care,  scholarly,  fresh,  and  delivered  with  a 
studied  elocution,  his  discourses  always  drew  together 
attentive  congregations  in  Dolcefar.  As  he  grew 
older,  he  became  more  lax,  or  more  advanced,  which 
ever  you  please.  His  last  sermon  was  delivered  in 
the  Universalist  chapel;  he  designedly  omitted  grace 
before  meals ;  and  he  had  even  been  seen  of  a  Sabbath 
morning  making  casts  in  a  likely  pool,  —  "  Just  for  a 
specimen,"  as  he  explained.  A  farewell  discourse  in 
the  kirk  on  the  text, "  Shall  he  find  faith  on  the  earth?  " 
caused  something  of  a  sensation  among  the  orthodox; 
but  its  mild  heresies  would  rank  their  author  now-a- 
days  in  the  extreme  wing  of  the  conservatives.  His 


1 6     LIFE  OF  A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

repute  as  a  public  lecturer  was  equally  high.  The 
news  that  he  was  to  speak  would  always  fill  a  hall. 
On  such  themes  as  "A  Trip  to  the  Moon,"  he  was 
inimitable.  Humorous,  droll,  sly,  pawky,  moving 
from  point  to  point  somewhat  heavily  and  slowly,  he 
really  had  the  secret  of  combining  amusement  and 
instruction.  He  had  his  own  quaint  phrases  which 
stuck  in  the  memory  and  raised  the  laugh. 

On  his  real  strength  he  did  not  pride  himself  nearly 
so  much  as  on  his  accomplishments.  He  was  a  great 
teacher.  He  shone  in  the  classroom.  He  had  left  the 
university  with  the  pleasing  conviction  that  mathe 
matics  was  a  science  in  which  no  further  progress 
could  be  made,  and  that  he  had  conquered  the  whole 
domain.  Backed  by  this  confidence,  he  inevitably 
assumed  a  lordly  air  towards  his  subject,  which  im 
pressed  his  students  profoundly.  But  he  really  knew 
his  subject,  and  he  had  a  genius  for  teaching.  A 
genuine  gift  for  exposition,  for  making  things  clear 
was  in  part  the  secret  of  his  power.  Over  and  over 
the  same  rules,  the  same  elementary  conceptions,  he 
went  for  nearly  forty  years,  without  tiring  of  them 
himself.  There  was  always  a  batch  of  fresh  recruits 
to  be  moulded  for  the  old  campaign;  and  he  enjoyed 
to  the  last  giving  them  their  drill  and  putting  them 
through  their  facings.  The  Lyttilites  liked  the  disci 
pline  themselves,  for  the  old  professor  had  a  way  with 


LIFE   OF  A   LITTLE   COLLEGE     17 

him.  His  tongue  had  a  razor  edge  which  usage  could 
not  dull;  but  never  were  sarcasms  delivered  with  such 
a  beaming,  affectionate,  paternal,  contradictory  smile. 
The  victim  might  suspect  himself  complimented  and 
the  laughter  of  his  fellows  a  roar  of  applause.  The 
old  professor  was  by  no  means  impartial;  he  had  his 
favourites  and  his  butts.  Some  few  never  forgave  his 
persecutions;  but  the  vast  majority  admired,  feared, 
loved  him.  He  was  the  favourite  professor;  his  was 
the  popular  class.  The  first  question  an  old  Lyttilite 
put  to  the  newcomer  from  the  college  was,  "How  's 
Charlie?"  Whenever  the  graduates  foregather,  end 
less  stories  are  told  of  his  dictes  et  gestes.  They  will 
furnish  forth  a  whole  evening's  entertainment.  His 
pet  phrases,  his  mannerisms,  like  his  cough  for  em 
phasis  before  implanting  the  sting  of  an  epigram,  were 
famous.  In  short,  the  old  professor  was  a  character, 
the  last  of  the  dominies.  He  taught  until  within  five 
days  of  his  death. 

m 

The  young  (or  new)  professor  was  the  pupil  of  the 
old  professor.  He  was  made  by  him,  admired  him, 
was  like  him,  and  was  unlike  him.  Entering  college 
at  an  uncannily  early  age,  he  soon  shot  to  the  front 
as  a  lad  of  parts.  Nurtured  on  the  classics  and  mathe 
matics,  he  nevertheless  showed  his  bent  for  the  study 


1 8     LIFE   OF  A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

of  nature  and  his  capacity  for  research  which  has  since 
made  him  famous.  Specialization  marked  him  for  her 
own.  A  scholarship  gave  him  the  means  to  study 
abroad  and  he  learned  what  the  universities  of  the 
old  world,  and  particularly  of  Germany,  could  teach 
him.  Then,  with  his  foreign  degree,  he  came  back  to 
serve  the  Lyttil  College. 

His  point  of  view  was  at  the  opposite  pole  from  his 
master's.  The  special  science  of  which  he  became  a 
devotee  was  an  infinite  book  of  secrecy  in  which  the 
wisest  could  spell  out  only  a  word  or  two  here  and 
there.  To  take  all  learning  for  his  province,  to  think 
of  the  subject  he  professed  as  made,  and  not  in  the 
process  of  making,  to  have  time  for  accomplishments, 
for  leisurely  vacations,  for  games,  or  for  reading  out 
side  his  branch  of  science  seemed  to  the  new  profes 
sor  beneath  the  practice  of  a  reasonable  creature. 
He  was  a  handsome,  fiery  little  man,  with  dark  auburn 
hair,  eyes  of  the  same  colour,  and  an  energetic  nose. 
He  walked  with  rapid,  disproportionate  strides,  —  a 
sure  sign,  say  close  observers,  of  ambition.  He  was 
ambitious;  he  aimed  at  making  contributions  to  his 
science;  but  the  tools  ready  to  his  hand  were  few  and 
poor.  The  laboratory  of  the  Lyttil  College  was  prac 
tically  a  desert.  The  luxurious  shining  toys  which 
are  provided  so  lavishly  for  some  professors  to  play 
with  were  not  to  be  thought  of.  There  was  no  money 


LIFE   OF  A   LITTLE   COLLEGE     19 

for  such  things.  So  the  new  professor  made  his  own 
apparatus,  with  which  he  investigated  and  researched 
and  studied  and  made  his  discoveries,  which  he  com 
municated  to  various  learned  journals  in  his  specialty. 
He  laboured  terribly,  day  and  night,  summer  and 
winter,  term-time  and  vacation.  For  him  a  holiday 
in  the  country  meant  taking  his  work  with  him.  A 
bathe  in  the  sea,  an  afternoon's  tramp,  were  the  use 
ful  relaxations,  refreshing  for  a  renewal  of  his  toil. 
Other  interests  fell  away;  he  became  that  essential 
product  of  modern  conditions,  —  the  specialist. 

It  would  not  be  fair  to  call  him  a  narrow  specialist. 
He  was  eager  to  impart  as  well  as  to  acquire ;  he  lived 
for  his  pupils  as  well  as  for  his  science,  and  so  the 
lucky  Lyttil  College  had  on  its  staff  two  real  teachers 
at  the  same  time,  representing  the  old  school  and  the 
new.  Though  the  old  professor  and  the  new  professor 
remained  friends,  admiring  each  other  greatly,  they 
came  into  conflict  in  the  meetings  of  the  Senatus. 
The  old  professor  was  in  favour  of  prescription,  the 
new  professor  advocated  more  freedom;  other  new 
professors  rallied  to  his  side,  and  by  degrees  the  Lyttil 
College  was  modernized  in  curriculum  and  adminis 
tration.  Ready,  keen,  vehement  in  debate  was  the 
new  professor,  combative  as  a  game-cock,  but  careful 
always  to  observe  the  rules  of  the  game.  For  all  the 
years  of  his  appointment,  he  supplied  the  motive 


ao     LIFE   OF   A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

power  of  the  institution.  He  was  fond  of  the  Ly  ttil  Col 
lege  and  lived  for  it,  although  his  talents  called  him  to 
a  wider  field  of  opportunity;  and  he  listened  to  the  call. 
His  reputation  grew  and  grew.  Out  of  his  empty 
laboratory  he  produced  learned  paper  after  learned 
paper  which  made  him  known  far  beyond  the  bound 
aries  of  his  province.  He  took  part  in  a  war  of  theories 
which  agitated  the  upper  air  of  the  scientific  Olympus, 
in  which  he  fought  not  without  glory.  And  he  had 
his  reward.  He  was  received  into  that  ancient  society 
to  which  all  scientific  men  aspire  and  had  the  right  to 
place  certain  three  letters  after  his  name.  A  position 
in  a  famous  university  followed;  and  the  Lyttil  Col 
lege  lost  her  most  distinguished  alumnus  for  ever. 
At  last  he  had  obtained  his  desire;  but  he  had  spent 
the  best  part  of  his  life  in  the  service  of  his  alma  mater, 
and  his  eyes  were  moist  the  day  he  said  good-bye  to 
the  college  and  his  colleagues.  Beyond  the  sea  he  is 
the  same  tireless  worker  that  he  was  in  the  days  of 
his  provincial  obscurity;  and  he  has  left  his  mark 
upon  the  ancient  and  famous  university,  which  reck 
ons  so  many  great  names  in  the  long  roll  of  its  pro 
fessoriate. 

IV 

One  great  advantage  of  a  little  college  is  that  the 
teacher  may  come  to  know  his  pupils.    They,  in  turn, 


LIFE   OF   A   LITTLE   COLLEGE     21 

profess  to  believe  that  this  personal  contact  is  a  ben 
efit  to  them,  and  this  pleasing  theory  makes  it  hard 
for  the  teacher  to  retain  his  needful  humility.  There 
can  be  no  manner  of  doubt  that  the  teacher  and  his 
teaching  profit  thereby.  When  the  college  grows  in 
population,  this  desirable  intercourse  comes  to  an  end, 
inevitably;  mere  arithmetic  intervenes;  that  there 
are  only  twenty-four  hours  in  the  day  renders  this 
possibility  of  mutual  acquaintanceship  a  dream.  To 
the  professor  with  large  classes,  his  students  are 
simply  a  mosaic  of  young  faces  in  the  lecture-room, 
an  alphabetical  list  of  names  against  which  to  set 
marks  for  examination  or  returns  of  attendance.  He 
loses  touch;  his  influence  and  his  power  as  a  teacher 
are  bound  to  suffer .  The  equation  remains  one-sided. 
He  may  not  know  his  students,  but  his  students  know 
him.  He  need  not  flatter  himself  that  there  is  any 
thing  unknown  about  him.  Every  day  is  a  day  of 
judgment.  Every  day  he  is  subjected  to  the  pitiless 
scrutiny  of  a  hundred  or  more  very  clear  young  eyes 
which  serve  active  brains,  intent  on  plucking  the 
heart  out  of  his  mystery.  Not  a  slip,  not  a  foible,  not 
a  weakness,  not  a  mannerism  passes  without  remark, 
comment,  analysis.  Their  judgments  do  not  err  on 
the  side  of  lenity;  they  see  only  one  side  of  the  man, 
and  perchance  there  are  possibilities  in  the  direst 
pedagogue  which  function  outside  the  classroom,  and 


22     LIFE  OF  A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

which,  if  known,  might  soften  the  harsh  justice  of 
impetuous  and  uncharitable  youth. 

Sheer  numbers  prevent  the  professor  in  a  large  in 
stitution  from  knowing  his  pupils.  In  the  little  col 
lege,  he  deals  not  with  educational  units,  but  with 
individual  young  human  beings  each  with  a  history 
of  his  own.  In  this  he  has  a  great  advantage  over  the 
other  learned  professions,  which  deal  chiefly  with 
grown  people  and  set  characters.  The  clergyman 
sees  human  nature  at  its  best,  the  lawyer  at  its  worst, 
and  the  doctor,  in  pain,  sickness,  and  decay.  But  the 
teacher  is  dealing  with  humanity  in  its  age  of  hope, 
"when  everything  seems  possible,  because  every 
thing  is  untried."  His]  work  lies  full  in  the  agitated 
mid-current  of  young  life.  He  must  be,  indeed,  stolid 
and  self-centred,  who  can  remain  unaffected  by  its 
generous  motions.  Age  may  vaunt  its  sad  superiority 
of  wisdom;  but  youth  is  the  age  of  idealism,  of  aspi 
ration,  of  virtue.  The  true  teacher  should  never  grow 
old,  for  he  lives,  as  does  no  other,  with  the  young. 
In  his  heart  there  should  be  an  eternal  May. 

Because  Ultima  Thule  has  diverse  elements  in  its 
population,  and  because  for  generations  provincials 
have  followed  the  sea,  a  professor  of  the  Lyttil  Col 
lege,  in  meeting  his  freshman  class  for  the  first  time, 
confronts  a  mass  of  collective  experience  Ulyssean 
in  its  quality  and  range.  This  boy  was  born  in  his 


LIFE   OF   A   LITTLE   COLLEGE     23 

father's  ship  off  Bombay;  the  earliest  recollection  of 
this  quiet  girl  is  being  taken  ashore  during  a  "  norther  " 
at  Valparaiso.  This  young  man  has  seen  knives  drawn 
and  men  drop  on  a  pier-head  at  Rio.  Even  if  they 
themselves  have  not  sailed  the  Spanish  Main  or  gone 
down  by  the  Horn,  their  fathers,  brothers,  or  other 
blood-kin  have  been  seafarers  and  have  come  home 
from  deep-sea  voyages  with  tales  of  strange  lands  on 
their  lips.  These  youths  gathered  here  for  the  sake 
of  book-learning  have  all  their  undervalued  lore  of 
life.  They  have  sailed  boats  single-handed  on  lonely 
seas;  they  have  hunted  the  bear  and  moose;  they 
have  known  the  perils  of  the  forest,  the  ocean,  the 
mine.  They  have  endured  the  varied  and  exacting 
labour  of  the  husbandman  throughout  the  changing 
year.  They  have  been  brought  face  to  face  with 
reality.  Not  a  few  have  already  taken  degrees  in  the 
rugged  school  of  privation,  and  are  at  college  solely 
through  their  own  powers  of  self-denial  and  self-help. 
Very  often,  as  in  the  fairy-tales,  it  is  the  youngest 
son  who  is  given  his  chance  by  the  hard-working  elder 
brothers  and  sisters  who  stay  at  home  on  the  farm 
and  join  forces  to  support  the  lad  of  parts.  Descend 
ants  of  French  peasants  and  of  out-wanderers  from 
the  pleasant  Rhine  country  are  to  be  found  in  the 
Lyttil  College,  still  manifesting  the  characteristics  of 
their  forebears ;  but  its  chief  strength  is  recruited  from 


24     LIFE  OF  A  LITTLE   COLLEGE 

three  districts  settled  by  clansmen  from  the  Highland 
hills.  Respect  for  the  minister  and  the  dominie,  for 
learning  and  education,  runs  in  their  blood.  In  such 
conditions,  the  teacher's  problem  is  simplicity  itself. 
He  does  not  have  to  coax  and  coddle  and  dry-nurse  a 
set  of  pulpy,  or  indifferent,  or  blase  youngsters  into 
meeting  a  minimum  of  college  requirements  for  a 
degree.  His  pupils  are  already  men  in  will,  determined 
to  know  and  eager  to  learn.  The  teacher's  only  task 
is  to  be  sure  of  himself  and  to  feed  his  disciples  with 
solid  food.  To  such  pupils  the  teacher  owes  the  hom 
age  of  respect;  he  may  count  himself  fortunate  if  he 
obtains  theirs  in  return. 

Though  there  is  a  decorative  fringe  of  young  women, 
and  though  many  of  them  become  good  students  and 
all  work  with  conscience,  the  Lyttil  College  is  essen 
tially  a  man's  college.  Men  do  things.  Every  autumn, 
the  professor  confronts  a  fresh  array  of  strange  young 
faces.  In  the  formative  quadrenniad  that  follows,  he 
comes  to  know  something  of  the  character  and  his 
tory  each  face  and  name  represent.  Then  they  pass, 
in  the  curious  phrase,  out  into  the  world.  The  next 
thing  their  old  teacher  knows  they  are  wagging  their 
heads  at  him  in  the  pulpit  and  telling  him  all  his  sins, 
or  they  are  winning  higher  degrees  in  foreign  univer 
sities,  or  acquiring  fortunes  with  bewildering  rapidity, 
or  making  books  of  learning  and  repute,  or  conferring 


LIFE  OF  A   LITTLE   COLLEGE     25 

with  him  as  undoubted  equals  in  points  of  scholarship, 
or  leading  political  parties,  haranguing  constituents 
and  making  laws  in  various  little  senates,  or  mould 
ing  public  opinion  through  the  press  and  dealing  with 
matters  of  life  and  death.  In  short,  they  are  doing 
men's  work  in  the  world,  and  their  whilom  preceptor 
finds  it  hard  to  readjust  the  focus  of  his  spectacles, 
through  which  he  views  them  and  their  achievements. 
Yesterday  they  were  boys,  in  statu  pupillari,  and 
boys  they  remain,  let  him  do  his  best,  in  the  profes 
sor's  eyes,  to  the  end  of  the  chapter.  A  few  years  of 
such  experience  will  lead  the  most  superior  and  light- 
minded  young  professor  to  see  a  sound  reason  for  the 
practice  of  Comenius;  and  he  will  uncover  mentally 
whenever  he  enters  into  the  presence  of  his  freshmen. 
He  will  become  impressed  with  the  magnitude  and 
the  solemnity  of  his  task;  he  may  even  realize  that 
his  office  is  essentially  a  religious  one,  and,  remember 
ing  the  custom  of  the  old  professor,  he  will  feel  like 
beginning  each  lecture  by  signing  himself,  in  nomine 
Domini. 

The  Lyttil  College  is  no  impossible  Eden  fenced 
off  by  adamantine  walls  against  the  assault  of  evil. 
Tragedy  forces  its  way  in.  Death,  disgrace,  sin, 
crime,  insanity,  moral  degradation  occur  from  time 
to  time,  to  remind  us  we  are  in  this  present  world,  to 
sadden  and  to  overawe.  Dark  shadows  are  inevitable. 


26     LIFE   OF  A  LITTLE   COLLEGE 

In  hundreds  of  youths  assembled  year  after  year  at 
one  educational  centre  by  some  mysterious  law  of 
natural  selection,  there  shall  not  fail  to  be  included  a 
few  of  the  baser  sort;  but  these  are  the  rare  exceptions. 
Nowhere  is  the  moral  atmosphere  purer  than  in  a 
college.  When  we  think  of  the  slipshod  ethics  of  mid 
dle  life,  its  love  of  ease  and  compromise,  its  cowardice, 
its  evasions,  and  of  the  impotence  of  old  age  for  good 
or  evil,  we  must  conclude  that  virtue  is  with  youth. 
Lyttilites  have  their  faults,  but  they  present  a  high 
average  of  character.  A  college  develops  the  brotherly 
spirit  of  the  regiment  and  the  ship;  and  these  colle 
gians  are  good  to  one  another.  They  care  for  their 
sick  in  hospital;  there  are  cases  of  a  scholarship  re 
signed  in  favour  of  a  less  fortunate  classmate.  Some 
attain  the  moral  height  called  heroism.  There  was 
one  honest-faced,  quiet  boy  who  dived  three  times 
for  the  fellow  bather  who  had  sunk  at  his  side.  Three 
times  he  dived  in  determined  effort,  and  the  third 
time  he  did  not  come  to  the  surface.  "  Greater  love 
hath  no  man  than  this,  that  a  man  lay  down  his  life 
for  his  friend."  There  was  another  lad  of  fair  hopes 
and  great  promise.  He  was  mortally  hurt  in  a  game, 
and  his  first  word  after  the  accident  was  to  clear  his 
opponents  of  blame.  Of  such  deeds  are  the  Lyttilites 
capable. 
The  usual  prizes  of  life  —  wealth,  fame,  place  — 


LIFE   OF   A   LITTLE   COLLEGE     27 

do  not  come  the  teacher's  way.  He  is  vowed  to  aca 
demic  poverty,  which  he  embraces  gladly  for  the  sake 
of  the  compensatory  freedoms.  He  knows  that  be 
is  scorned  by  the  man  of  the  world  and  the  man  of 
affairs  as  an  unpractical  recluse;  but  he  is  also  aware 
that  not  infrequently  a  measure  of  envy  mingles  in 
their  scorn.  Learned  leisure,  the  friendship  of  books, 
the  golden  mediocrity  of  fortune,  are  often  regarded 
wistfully  by  those  who  are  quite  unfitted  to  enjoy 
them.  And  though  the  college  pedagogue  is  conscious 
of  being  pursued  through  life  by  the  half-contemp 
tuous,  half-envious  pity  of  the  successful,  and  though 
he  may  be  tempted  at  times  to  wish  for  more  of  this 
world's  goods  as  a  member  of  a  society  in  which  money 
is  the  measure  of  all  things,  his  regrets  are  never  long- 
lived.  He  has  his  compensations.  Of  these,  the  chief 
is  merely  that  he  should  not  be  forgotten  by  those  he 
has  taught.  A  visit  on  the  eve  of  departure  for  a  for 
eign  shore,  or  on  return  from  travel,  a  book  to  his 
taste,  a  Christmas  greeting,  some  little  token  from 
the  other  side  of  the  world  after  years  have  flown,  civil 
wedding  cards,  announcements  of  birth,  rare  letters 
which  are  never  destroyed,  a  word  of  thanks  or  grat 
itude  for  what  he  has  tried  to  do,  —  these  insignifi 
cant,  elusive  things  make  up  the  teacher's  hidden 
riches  and  render  him  more  than  content  with  his  little 
house,  his  modest  table,  and  his  shabby,  book-lined 


28     LIFE   OF  A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

study.    A  wise  man  has  declared,  "We  live  by  admi 
ration,  hope,  and  love." 


All  the  activities  of  the  Lyttil  College  are  pent  up 
within  four  walls  and  under  one  roof.  There  is  no 
residence  or  (suggestive  word)  dormitory.  The  stu 
dents  lodge  where  they  please  throughout  the  town, 
Scottish  fashion;  and  the  one  building  is  used  solely 
for  the  purposes  of  instruction.  It  contains  two  little 
libraries,  five  little  laboratories,  besides  little  class 
rooms,  offices,  and  other  accommodations,  —  a  mar 
vel  of  concentration.  No  charm  of  architecture  in 
vests  it.  The  Lyttil  College  looks  as  utilitarian  as  a 
red-brick  factory,  as  ugly  and  gaunt  as  poverty  joined 
with  ignorance  could  make  it.  And  yet  these  incred 
ible  Lyttilites  idealize  the  monstrous  fabric  and  grow 
lyrical  in  honour  of  its  one  passable  feature,  the  "old 
red  tower,"  the  antiquity  of  said  tower  being  some 
score  of  years.  Some  avoid  revisiting  the  place  after 
graduation  because  it  awakens  a  curious  homesick 
ness.  Others  make  a  point  of  coming  back  with 
wife  and  child,  as  on  a  pilgrimage.  The  most  re 
mote  send  affectionate  inquiries  about  the  dear 
ugly  place  from  the  ends  of  the  earth,  for  they  see 
it  still  through  the  rose-coloured  mists  of  youth  and 
enthusiasm. 


LIFE  OF  A   LITTLE  COLLEGE     29 

The  session  is  old-fashioned  and  well-nigh  unique. 
It  lasts  for  eight  months,  with  very  few  breaks,  and 
then  comes  a  long  vacation  of  a  full  third  of  the  year. 
That  is  the  division  of  time.  The  session  is  a  period 
of  intense  activity  followed  by  a  period  of  intense  re 
pose.  If  the  college  looks  like  a  factory  outside,  it  is 
a  beehive  within,  humming  with  intellectual  activity. 
The  sacred  hours  are  from  ten  to  one  in  the  morning. 
The  visitor  who  traverses  the  corridors  then  hears  the 
voices  of  various  lecturers  beating  through  the  general 
stillness,  with  now  and  then  a  burst  of  applause  or 
Kentish  fire,  for  one  of  the  Lyttilites'  most  cherished 
privileges  is  the  right  to  cheer  their  professors,  iron 
ically  or  with  good  will.  The  custom  has  its  uses:  it 
corresponds  to  the  custom  of  having  markers  at  the 
targets  to  show  what  shots  get  home;  and  it  is  not 
abused.  At  five  minutes  to  the  hour  a  bell  rings,  and 
the  staircases  and  corridors  are  suddenly  filled  with 
the  tramp  of  feet  and  the  noise  of  many  voices  com 
ing,  going,  intermingling  in  their  passage  from  class 
room  to  classroom.  The  self-detennining  tides  of 
young  humanity  find  their  different  goals;  the  tumult 
ceases,  silence  reigns  once  more,  broken  only  by  the 
booming  of  the  lecturer's  voice.  There  are  always 
readers  in  the  one  large  room  on  the  ground  floor  with 
windows  looking  to  the  south,  and  labourers  in  the 
laboratories.  The  college  motto  is  "Ora  et  labora"\ 


30     LIFE   OF   A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

and  there  is  a  determined  effort  to  carry  into  effect 
the  second  command,  at  least.  Inspection  would 
hardly  find  a  single  room  in  the  building  without  its 
corps  of  workers  from  morn  till  eve.  The  Lyttil  Col 
lege  is  a  working  college.  The  casual  drones  are  soon 
detected  and  put  out  of  the  hive. 

And  yet  it  would  be  a  mistake  to  think  of  the  Lyt- 
tilites  as  a  set  of  spectacled  young  mandarins.  They 
are  hearty  youths  who  know  how  to  play  as  well  as 
work;  and  not  seldom  are  the  best  scholars  the  fore 
most  athletes.  Their  one  game  is  an  old-fashioned 
variety  of  football ;  and  they  are  famed  for  their  prow 
ess  in  it.  An  ancient  town-and-gown  rivalry  with  a 
local  club  gives  the  keenest  edge  to  competition.  The 
annual  contests  in  October  are  Homeric.  During 
that  month  both  town  and  college  go  mad  over  the 
game.  A  series  of  struggles  for  a  costly  hideous  silver 
"trophy"  has  continued  for  years,  with  trumpets  of 
victory,  groans  of  defeat.  On  match  days  the  grassy 
arena  of  the  athletic  ground  is  lined  thick  with  ex 
cited,  vociferous  partisans,  to  cheer  the  gladiators  on. 
In  all  the  throng  there  is  no  keener  onlooker  than  tin 
reverend  head  of  the  Lyttil  College  himself;  he  has 
never  been  known  to  miss  a  match,  rain  or  shine. 
Most  of  the  staff  attend  also,  or  if  not,  they  are  busy 
at  golf,  or  quoits,  or  boating.  In  the  winter  they  pur 
sue  the  antique  Scottish  sport  of  curling.  No  one  can 


LIFE   OF  A   LITTLE   COLLEGE     31 

accuse  the  Lyttil  College  of  neglecting  the  body  in  its 
cultivation  of  the  mind. 

Vacation  comes  with  the  cold  rains  of  the  bleak 
Norland  spring.  The  fever  of  the  annual,  mechanical 
testing  called  examination  has  spent  itself;  the  last 
diploma  has  been  signed  in  the  dusty,  littered  library, 
the  last  excited  conference  of  the  Senatus  has  been 
held,  and  the  hurry-flurry  of  Commencement  Day  is 
over  for  a  year,  to  the  unspeakable  relief  of  the  head 
and  all  the  staff.  For  Commencement  Day  is  some 
what  saturnalian  in  character,  and  the  demure  Lyt- 
tillites  reward  themselves  for  eight  months'  decorum 
by  what  might  appear  to  the  uninitiated  outsider  as 
a  dangerous  riot.  Songs,  cheers,  chaff,  shouts,  jokes, 
personalities  from  the  students'  gallery  enliven  the 
orderly  "proceedings,"  and  the  professors  are  baited 
freely,  to  the  huge  delight  of  all  but  the  victims.  Then 
the  Lyttilites  disperse  to  the  four  winds  of  heaven. 
Very  few  are  able  to  spend  the  vacation  in  idleness. 
The  majority  must  employ  their  leisure  in  finding 
money  for  the  next  session's  expenses.  They  have 
various  ways  of  making  money,  which  they  do  not 
care  to  discuss,  never  considering,  perhaps,  that  the 
experience  so  gained  may  prove  as  valuable  as  the 
book-learning  acquired  in  the  classroom.  They  carry 
on  the  fine  old  tradition  which  unites  learning  with 
narrow  means. 


32     LIFE  OF  A  LITTLE  COLLEGE 

In  vacation,  the  Lyttil  College  is  empty  and  lonely, 
like  a  rock  on  the  sand  when  the  tide  has  ebbed  far 
away.  "All  the  bloomy  flush  of  life  is  fled."  Silence 
reigns  in  the  dusty  classrooms  and  the  long  corridors. 
Only  now  and  then  a  solitary  professor  lets  himself 
into  the  library  with  his  private  key  to  borrow  a 
book;  but  he  does  not  stay  long.  His  footsteps  echo 
strangely  loud  in  the  vacant  halls.  Outside,  the  vine 
in  the  reentrant  of  the  central  tower,  which  looks  in 
the  winter  like  a  map  of  the  Amazon  and  its  tribu 
taries,  resumes  its  leisurely  green  escalade  of  our  walls. 
Up  it  has  crept  storey  by  storey,  and  in  time  its  tri 
umphant  banners  will  flutter  above  our  battlements. 
In  midsummer,  it  forms  a  wavering  green  arras,  which 
ruffles  and  sways  in  the  wind.  In  autumn,  the  leaves 
turn  all  hues  of  crimson  and  copper,  most  glorious  to 
see.  Now,  the  single  retainer  of  the  establishment,  a 
veteran  of  the  Great  Mutiny,  emerges  from  his  winter 
burrow  in  the  furnace-room  for  the  annual  house- 
cleaning.  He  is  an  absolute  factotum,  being  stoker, 
parlor-maid,  carpenter,  mason,  gardener  all  in  one. 
He  and  his  wife,  an  old  campaigner,  have  their  "quar 
ters,"  as  he  calls  them,  in  a  corner  of  the  basement. 
A  reminiscence  of  barrack  life  is  the  plain  plank  bed 
without  mattress  or  blanket,  on  which  he  stretches 
himself  between  watches.  Indoors,  he  sweeps  and 
dusts  and  paints  and  creates  a  strong  atmosphere  of 


LIFE   OF   A   LITTLE   COLLEGE     33 

common  soap.  Then  he  sallies  forth  with  rake  and 
hoe  to  put  the  walks  in  order.  The  grass  grows  high 
and  is  never  cut  or  mowed;  but  a  curly-headed  old 
Kerry  man  grazes  his  seven  fine  cows  roundabout, 
which  adds  a  pastoral  touch  to  the  academic  scene. 
An  occasional  tourist  invades  the  vacation  stillness,  or 
an  old  graduate  revisits  alma  mater,  with  his  little  boys 
in  his  hand.  Happy  is  he  if  he  encounters  one  of  his 
old  professors  in  the  building  and  can  chat  about  col 
lege  affairs.  And  so  season  follows  season,  the  years 
slip  away,  and  the  little  college  which  is  not  a  build 
ing,  or  a  staff  of  teachers,  or  a  body  of  students,  or 
all  combined,  but  a  spiritual  ideal,  strikes  its  roots 
deeper  into  all  hearts  concerned  with  it. 

VI 

If  it  savours  of  impertinence  to  assert  that  the  Lyt- 
til  College  has  a  history,  it  must  seem  the  empty  vaunt 
of  a  fanatical  admirer  to  rank  it  as  a  world  power. 
But  this  is  the  sober  truth.  The  Lyttil  College  does 
verily  reach  out  its  hands  to  the  ends  of  the  earth 
and  sway  men  and  events.  Consider  the  fact  that  it 
has  trained  several  hundred  ministers  of  the  Christian 
religion,  who  have  now  for  many  years  been  preach 
ing  to  congregations  of  faithful  men  all  the  world  over. 
Some  have  become  missionaries  to  the  heathen,  and 


34     LIFE   OF  A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

carry  the  Lyttil  College  in  their  hearts  to  India, 
China,  and  the  islands  of  the  sea.  Almost  as  great  is 
the  number  of  secular  teachers,  who  have  devoted 
themselves  to  the  task  of  instructing  the  youth  of 
the  province,  and  to  a  less  extent,  of  the  Dominion. 
Not  a  few  have  reached  the  rank  of  professors  in  full- 
blooded  universities  and  have  attained  modest  emi 
nence  in  the  scholastic  world.  They  are  all  proud  to 
attribute  their  success  to  the  training  they  received 
within  the  walls  of  the  Lyttil  College.  But  for  it, 
they  must  have  remained  unenlightened  to  the  end 
of  their  days.  Besides,  not  a  few  of  our  lawmakers, 
judges,  and  public  men  who  form  opinion  by  means 
of  the  press  were  made  what  they  are  by  the  Lyttil 
College.  The  aggregate  of  such  influence  wielded  by 
so  many  Lyttilites  in  so  many  directions  must  be  in 
calculable.  Then,  as  befits  a  college  founded  by  a 
soldier  with  money  taken  from  the  enemy,  it  has  a 
war  record.  In  '85,  Lyttilites  went  to  the  front  at 
the  call  of  the  country  and  endured  the  hardships  of 
campaigning,  without  the  rewards  and  glories  of  actual 
fighting.  Again,  in  '99,  when  the  Mother  Country 
called  on  her  qhildren  for  aid,  five  Lyttilites  were 
found  in  the  first  force  of  fighting  men  sent  by  the 
Dominion  to  the  seat  of  war.  One  company  was 
commanded  by  a  Lyttilite,  and  it  so  fell  out  that  when 
the  regiment  made  a  desperate  night  attack,  and  the 


LIFE   OF   A   LITTLE   COLLEGE     35 

order  was  given  to  "retire,"  a  Lyttilite  corporal  ques 
tioned  the  word  as  it  came  to  him  in  the  thick  dark 
ness  amid  the  devil's  racket  of  the  fusillade,  and  did 
not  pass  it  on.  Consequently  the  one  company  with 
the  quiet  Lyttilite  captain  held  its  ground  desper 
ately  within  sixty  paces  of  the  enemy's  trenches,  till 
day  broke  and  the  white  flag  was  hoisted  over  the 
huge  river  camp.  After  the  war,  the  Lyttilites  brought 
back  two  large  lierkleurs  to  the  college.  The  trophies 
hang  in  the  library  above  the  portrait  of  the  founder. 
After  the  war,  four  Lyttilite  girls  were  chosen  to  go 
out  and  teach  the  children  of  the  conquered.  So  it  is 
plain  that  the  Lyttil  College  has  meddled  with  affairs 
of  the  first  magnitude,  not  without  glory.  The  Lyttil 
College  is  a  world  power.  Every  little  college  is  a 
world  power. 

But  the  Lyttil  College  is  a  thing  of  the  past.  It 
has  outgrown  its  second  home  and  entered  upon  a 
much  greater  inheritance.  Ample  grounds  await  the 
next  development.  Generous  friends  have  over 
whelmed  the  Lyttil  College  with  their  gifts.  Splendid 
plans  are  being  made  and  executed  for  stately  build 
ings,  suitable  equipment,  sufficient  endowment.  Cin 
derella  has  blossomed  into  the  princess  of  a  fairy-tale. 
But  one  thing  is  certain,  she  cannot  be  more  beloved 
in  her  prosperity  than  when  she  was  unknown  and 
poor. 


LITTLE    COLLEGE    GIRLS 


LITTLE    COLLEGE    GIRLS 

ALTHOUGH  our  college  is  a  small  one  and  little 
famous,/it  is  still  the  chiefest  in  the  well-known 
province  of  Ultima  Thule.  It  was  founded  early  in 
the  last  century;  and  though  our  numbers  be  few 
and  our  housing  unlovely,  there  are  those  that  be 
lieve  in  our  little  college,  admire  it,  love  it.  Some 
twenty  years  ago,  certain  ambitious  girls  signified 
their  desire  to  attend  it.  The  staff,  the  governors 
made  no  objection;  the  girls  came;  one  married  within 
the  year,  the  other  crowned  a  full  course  with  a  good 
degree;  other  girls  have  been  coming  ever  since.  I 
have  been  young  and  am  now  old.  I  have  had  some 
hundreds  of  the  college  girl,  as  bred  in  these  parts, 
under  observation,  and  I  have  arrived  at  definite 
conclusions  regarding  her. 

The  popular  imagination  is  a  romantic  thing.  It 
transformed  the  meddlesome  old  woman  in  Southey's 
tale  of  the  three  bears  into  the  picturesque  and  mis 
chievous  Goldilocks.  And  it  has  created  an  impossi 
ble  ethereal  being,  all  good  looks  and  good  clothes, 
who  subsists  on  caramels,  and  floats  gracefully 
through  her  courses  until  she  becomes  one  in  a  bevy 

39 


40     LIFE   OF  A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

of  "sweet  girl  graduates  with  their  golden  hair." 
This  is  labelled  "the  college  girl,"  and  is  exactly  the 
kind  of  doll  that  great  baby,  the  public,  loves  to  play 
with. 

The  reality  is  very  different.  The  Canadian  col 
lege  girl,  as  I  know  her,  is  an  earnest  young  person, 
who  is  not  carried  to  the  skies  of  academic  distinc 
tions  on  flowery  beds  of  ease.  She  knows  the  mean 
ing  and  the  value  of  hard  work,  with  small  leisure  for 
frivolity  of  any  kind.  She  may  be  an  infant  of  six 
teen,  fresh  from  school,  with  her  frock  at  her  ankle 
and  her  hair  in  a  "club,"  or  she  may  be  a  mature 
woman,  who  may  well  have  prepared  her  classmate 
for  matriculation, /or  a  city  girl  of  means,  with  time 
on  her  hands,  who  takes  a  class  or  two  because  she 
wants  to  improve  herself;  but  they  all  alike  learn  to 
work,  and  shun  to  be  idle.  More  of  our  girls  have 
taken  honours  in  mathematics  than  in  any  other  de 
partments;  but  this  may  be  due  to  the  climate;  the 
popular  opinion  is  that  the  kind  of  head  that  grows  in 
Ultima  Thule  is  particularly  hard  and  strong. 

Outwardly  the  life  of  the  college  girl  is  rather 
neutral- tinted.  She  comes  from  the  country  and 
finds  a  boarding-house  for  herself,  where  she  exists 
in  more  or  less  discomfort.  Her  work  is  attending 
lectures;  her  diversions  are  church  and  the  meetings 
of  the  two  college  societies  for  girls,  a  rare  party,  or 


LITTLE   COLLEGE  GIRLS          41 

a  college  "at  home."  She  gives  her  days  to  lectures, 
does  not  dream  of  cutting  even  the  dullest,  and  her 
nights  to  study.  Outwardly,  it  is  not  an  attractive 
life;  but  every  now  and  then  comes  a  hint  of  how 
those  who  live  it  look  upon  it,  —  a  letter  from  the 
ends  of  the  earth,  a  rarity  for  the  museum,  some 
books  for  the  library,  a  picture  for  a  classroom,  a 
visit  of  an  old  student  to  his  former  haunts.  The 
secret  is  that  youth  is  the  season  of  romance,  and 
that  within  our  homely  walls  the  inner  life  of  the 
intellect  is  kindled  or  fanned  to  brighter  flame,  that 
tinges  all  about  it  with  the  colour  of  the  rose.  The 
young  people  get  here  something  that  they  value, 
call  it  awakening,  education,  point  of  view,  mental 
attitude,  or  what  you  will. 

We  have  no  "problem"  in  our  little  college.  The 
young  women  sit  at  lectures  with  the  young  men; 
they  read  in  the  library  and  work  in  the  laboratory 
together.  They  wear  streamers  of  the  college  colours 
at  the  football  matches,  encouraging  the  gladiators 
by  their  presence  at  the  celebration  of  their  victory 
as  well  as  at  the  actual  contest.  But  they  are  neither 
rivals  with  the  youths,  nor,  to  the  acute  observer, 
unduly  friendly.  The  young  men  will  open  the  door 
of  a  classroom  for  them  and  allow  them  to  go  out 
first;  but  there  is  no  open  flirtation.  There  was  once 
a  girl  who  came  to  the  college  for  fun,  and  who  had 


42     LIFE   OF  A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

usually  two  or  three  youths  about  her,  engaged  in 
sparkling  conversation.  Her  fate  was  strikingly  ap 
propriate;  she  married  a  minister.  I  have  seen  her 
since  her  marriage  and  her  spirits  have  not  abated. 
It  must,  however,  be  admitted  that  our  college  is, 
somehow  or  other,  a  matrimonial  bureau,  —  a  school 
for  husbands  and  wives.  Our  graduates  show  a  very 
amiable  propensity  to  marry  within  the  family,  so  to 
say.  In  spite  of  lectures,  examinations,  and  all  the 
stress  of  intellectual  effort,  the  old  puzzle  regarding 
the  way  of  a  man  with  a  maid  persists  here  as  else 
where. 

The  god  of  love,  a!  benkfitftfr, 

How  mighty  and  how  great  a  lord  is  he! 

There  must  be  a  good  deal  of  question  and  answer; 
the  lasses  must  get  their  dues  of  courting,  but  pub 
lic  opinion  decrees  that  it  must  not  be  done  on  the 
premises.  A  few  lines  in  the  newspaper,  or  occasional 
wedding  cards,  or  the  gossip  of  an  old  student,  tell 
the  faculty  all  they  ever  know  of  these  affairs.  The 
freaks  of  mating  are  as  curious  here  as  elsewhere; 
as  when  a  stalwart  football  player  chooses  a  quiet 
little  slip  of  a  girl,  who  looks  as  if  a  breath  of 
wind  would  blow  her  away,  and  carries  her  off  to 
Christianize  the  heathen  at  the  other  side  of  the 
world. 

In  other  words,  the  relations  between  the  young 


LITTLE   COLLEGE   GIRLS          43 

men  and  maidens  are  right  and  pleasant,  as  our  girls 
find  when  they  compare  notes  with  their  friends  in 
other  colleges.  They  discover  that  they  have  been 
treated  with  a  courtesy  and  consideration  not  in 
variably  accorded  to  girls  at  college.  Part  of  the 
credit  is  due  to  the  young  men;  but  most  to  the  young 
women  themselves.  They  come  from  Puritan  homes, 
where  religion  is  a  reality.  They  are  good  girls.  As 
I  sit  alone  in  the  long  afternoons,  nvmy  cyrio  that 
overlooks  the  sea,  there  comes  at  twilight,  down  the 
deserted  corridor,  the  sound  of  girlish  voices  up 
raised  in  a  hymn;  and,  in  the  silence  that  follows,  I 
know  that  they  are  praying.  This  exercise  is  not 
prescribed  in  the  curriculum,  but  it  forms  no  small 
part  of  their  education,  and,  I  imagine,  of  others. 
The  college  girls  take  their  share  of  church  work, 
sometimes  to  the  detriment  of  their  studies  and  stand 
ing,  or  they  find  time  in  the  midst  of  heavy  honour 
courses  for  works  of  mercy  among  the  needy  at  their 
own  door. 

Let  no  one  infer  from  the  last  remark  but  two 
or  three  that  our  girls  lack  their  share  of  comeliness, 
of  the  essential  charm  of  girlhood.  Our  classrooms 
have  here  and  there  a  picture,  though  our  decoration 
is  meagre;  but  the  best  are  the  living  pictures. 
" Praised  be  Allah,"  says  the  devout  Arab,  "who 
made  beautiful  women!"  and  even  in  Ultima  Thule 


44     LIFE   OF  A  LITTLE   COLLEGE 

he  would  often  have  such  cause  for  thankfulness. 
The  poor  youths!  they  are  so  placed  in  the  classroom 
that  they  can  study  only  the  rear  view  of  various 
coiffures;  but  the  lucky  professor,  by  virtue  of  his 
office,  may  and  must  look  his  audience  in  the  face, 
and  if  he  dwells  on  the  most  attractive  part  of  it, 
who  shall  blame  him?  The  prevailing  impression 
left  on  his  mind  is  pinkish,  for  our  Norland  air  is 
tempered  by  the  sea,  and  sets  a  lasting  rouge  upon 
the  cheek  that  has  known  it  from  childhood.  Else 
where  on  this  continent  the  colour  in  the  young 
girl's  face  is  apt  to  be  too  faint.  Tusitala  would 
have  liked  our  Ultima  Thulians,  for  here  the  young 
maidens  have  "quiet  eyes."  As  I  think  of  them,  a 
long  procession  of  fresh  faces  passes  before  me; 

I  dream  of  a  red-rose  tree. 

Jessica's  face  comes  first,  —  a  baby  face,  except 
for  its  earnest  look,  full,  round,  dimpled,  in  colour 
like  a  ripened  peach.  Jessica's  eyes  are  blue,  the 
blue  of  an  April  sky  after  rain,  and  her  hair  is  wavy 
and  fair.  She  looked  soberly  in  class;  but  once  she 
smiled  when  she  thanked  me  for  something  she  had 
learned,  she  said,  from  me.  Jessica  is  a  woman  now, 
winning  her  bread  by  her  own  toil.  I  met  her  the 
other  day,  on  my  long  walk,  with  a  young  man. 
They  both  had  a  happy,  confidential  air  that  pro- 


LITTLE   COLLEGE   GIRLS          45 

claimed  their  relation  as  well  as  a  placard.  I  think 
her  days  of  independence  are  near  an  end. 

Norah  was  true  to  her  Celtic  name  and  Celtic 
blood.  Generously  made,  impulsive,  hearty,  ready 
with  her  tongue,  her  wit,  her  laugh,  Norah  in  the 
classroom  made  stagnation  impossible.  She  had  a 
trick  of  blushing  when  she  laughed,  and  her  colour 
changed  quickly.  When  she  graduated,  she  was  un 
decided  between  going  on  the  stage  and  going  into 
a  convent;  and  she  took  the  veil.  I  have  seen  her 
since.  They  have  cut  off  her  beautiful  hair,  and  she 
wears  the  black  habit  and  white  oaf  of  her  order. 
Norah  is  her  name  no  longer.  I  must  call  her  Sister 
Theresita.  But  these  changes  do  not  go  very  deep. 
Sister  Theresita  is  my  old,  hearty,  impulsive  Norah, 
perfectly  happy  in  her  new  sequestered  life,  a  power 
in  the  convent  school,  and  still  warmly  interested  in 
her  old  college. 

All  the  Bellair  sisters  were  pretty.  They  were  all 
well  made,  and  with  a  peculiarly  graceful  carriage. 
They  came  in  a  long  succession,  and  though  not 
famous  as  students,  were  most  decorative  in  the 
class-room.  Kate,  the  eldest,  was  a  court  lady  in 
our  Shakespearean  revival,  and  she  looked  the  part. 
Their  cousin,  Bonnibel,  was  girlishly  slim,  with 
brown  eyes  and  ruddy  brown  hair.  No  more  than  a 
child  when  she  entered  college,  she  soon  proved  a 


46     LIFE   OF  A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

good  student,  patient,  systematic,  steady  as  the  clock. 
Without  overworking,  but  by  simple  faithfulness, 
she  won  her  high  honours,  and  she  deserved  them. 
Not  yet  content,  she  is  working  for  a  higher  degree; 
but  I  am  glad  to  notice  that  she  is  no  longer  as  thin 
as  she  was.  Her  friend  and  classmate  was  called 
"the  Little  Duchess"  by  the  Old  Professor,  from  the 
way  she  queened  it  over  the  whole  college.  Every 
one  liked  her,  and  every  one  made  demands  upon 
her;  and  that  was  the  trouble.  There  was  too  much 
for  her  to  do  in  the  twenty-four  hours  of  each  day, 
and,  for  a  time,  she  was  forced  to  retire  from  the 
field.  Her  disappointment  was  extreme,  but  she 
waited,  and  the  laurels  were  ready  for  her  when  she 
came  back.  Like  the  other  Maud,  her  little  head 
ran  over  with  curls. 

But  my  procession  is  growing  too  long;  still  I  must 
not  forget  Anita,  who  has  Spanish  eyes  that  dance 
when  she  dances.  She  is  in  part  exotic,  a  flower  of 
the  tropics,  strayed  in  our  stern  Northland.  Phoebe 
was  a  staid  country  lass,  of  the  wholesome  English 
type,  with  smooth  black  hair,  bright  red  cheeks,  and 
brown  eyes  that  looked  black  under  sleek  black 
brows  and  long  black  eyelashes.  We  had  to  break 
the  news  to  Phcebe  that  she  had  won,  by  quiet,  hard 
work,  as  great  an  honour  as  our  little  world  has  to 
offer.  It  was  a  complete  surprise.  Phcebe  laughed 


LITTLE   COLLEGE   GIRLS          47 

and  blushed,  and  gasped  "I?"  in  thorough  incredu 
lity.  I  have  seen  many  a  rosy  dawn  and  sunset,  but 
never  any  play  of  colour  as  fine  as  the  come  and  go 
of  the  good  red  blood  in  Phoebe's  face  that  day. 

Neither  our  lads  nor  our  lasses  are  weaklings.  Half 
the  college  play  football,  and  our  champion  team  is 
a  joy  to  behold.  Di  Vernon  is  as  straight  as  a  lance- 
shaft,  and  has  swum  across  the  bay  and  back.  A 
six-mile  tramp  over  country  roads  is  no  great  feat 
for  any  of  them.  Many  are  daughters  of  sea-captains, 
and  have  seen,  as  children,  those  strange  places  all 
round  the  world,  that  are  for  most  of  us  mere  names 
in  story-books.  With  this  breeding,  on  or  by  the 
sea,  they  have  gained  character  early.  Janet  spent 
her  childhood  in  a  lighthouse  on  a  lonely  island;  her 
father  has  saved  many  a  life;  Flora  Temembers-a- 
"norther*  o^rrer-lathex^^ 

Hannah's  earliest  recollection  is  of  a  strange  man, 
who  could  speak  no  English,  knocking  at  the  door 
one  stormy  night,  all  faint  and  dripping  from  a 
recent  wTeck. 

But  they  are  not  all  strong.  Alicia,  my  best 
scholar,  was  in  my  classes  two  years  before  I  was 
able  to  identify  her.  She  was  a  quiet,  slight  little 
woman,  very  shy  and  low-spoken.  Her  voice  was 
never  heard  in  class,  which  was  a  pity,  for  it  was 
caressing,  clear,  and  exquisitely  modulated.  Nearly 


48     LIFE   OF  A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

two  years  passed  before  I  could  connect  the  perfect 
papers  bearing  Alicia's  name  with  the  most  silent, 
most  attentive  student  in  the  room.  When  I  did, 
our  friendship  began.  There  is  much  virtue  in  work, 
in  mastering  the  knowledge  that  is  worth  knowing, 
in  learning  how  to  wield  and  handle  it,  in  making  it 
subserve  noble  ends.  This  was  the  stamp  of  Alicia's 
work;  it  was  full  of  this  virtue;  but  the  chief  charm 
was  the  character  that  showed  itself  unconsciously 
in  all  that  work.  Strength  to  endure,  an  unvary 
ing  sweet  patience,  the  scholar's  modest  ambition 
and  enthusiasm,  a  richness  of  gentle  affection  that 
radiates  warmth  on  all  about  her,  —  these  are  Alicia. 
We  are  old  friends  now,  but  the  years,  as  they  pass, 
only  give  me  better  reasons  for  thinking  well  of  her. 
Sorrow  has  come  to  her  in  many  forms,  one  of  the 
sorest  being  a  long  severance  from  her  beloved  books; 
but  the  fire  has  only  made  the  gold  finer.  Mine  is 
the  opinion  of  all  who  know  her.  Her  life  is  not  one 
that  most  would  choose;  but  it  is  neither  without 
fruit  nor  without  cheer.  If  only  the  jewel  had  not 
so  frail  a  casket! 

Honour  was  the  best  listener  I  ever  had.  Every 
speaker  knows  what  I  mean.  The  greater  part  of 
every  class  attends,  and  attends  well;  but  once  in  a 
while  you  entertain  an  angel,  in  the  shape  of  a  hearer, 
who  is  specially  interested,  who  never  takes  his 


LITTLE   COLLEGE   GIRLS          49 

eye  off  you,  who  never  misses  a  point,  who  is  com 
pletely  sympathetic.  Such  a  hearer  was  Honour. 
Her  face  was  a  telltale  mirror  of  what  was  passing 
in  her  mind;  every  thought,  every  emotion  made 
some  change  there.  Her  eyes  were  the  fresh,  well- 
opened  eyes  of  a  child,  free  from  concealment,  from 
self-consciousness,  from  any  shade  of  unreality  or 
affectation.  Frank,  proud,  sensitive,  alert,  open  as 
the  day,  Honour  was  also  fair  to  see,  a  tall,  straight 
girl  who  looked  her  best  in  her  habit  and  on  horse 
back;  eyes,  a  Scottish  grey-blue;  a  mouth  like  Brown 
ing's  Edith,  the  lips  parting  naturally  and  showing 
a  little  bit  of  two  white  strong  teeth.  And  a  pretty 
wit  had  Honour,  a  way  of  putting  things  all  her 
own.  Once  we  played  a  comedy  of  Shakespeare's, 
and  Honour  was  our  star.  Shall  we  ever  forget  her 
brightness,  patience,  docility,  unfailing  good  humour? 
Honour  made  the  play,  andU^-^teririeads  a  legacy 
of  pleasant  memories.  Now  she  is  happily  married, 
and  has  gone  to  live  in  a  far  country.  She  writes  that 
forget-me-nots  grow  thick  in  the  Jbetam  meadows; 
they  grow  also  along  the  brooks  of  Ultima  Thule. 

Constance  came  up  to  college  with  strong  health, 
excellent  preparation,  and  a  merry  face.  A  way  of 
turning  her  head  on  one  side,  like  a  bird,  and  a  twist 
of  her  lips  into  a  quizzical  smile  are  what  I  remember 
her  by.  Students  fix  themselves  upon  the  teacher's 


50     LIFE   OF   A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

memory  by  trick  of  personality,  displaying  itself  in 
word,  or  gesture,  or  question.  Some  phrase,  or  atti 
tude,  or  incident  establishes  the  identification  for 
ever.  Many  come  and  go  like  phantoms,  impressing 
themselves  in  no  way  on  the  college  memory;  but 
Constance  worked  faithfully  and  cheerfully,  earn 
ing  the  respect  of  the  staff,  moving  in  a  brightness 
of  her  own  making,  and  leaving  behind  her  the  after 
glow  of  a  rich  and  sunny  nature.  When  she  passed 
out  of  our  halls  for  the  last  time,  she  little  knew  what 
was  before  her.  Mercifully  she  did  not.  Constance 
was  fated  to  be  one  of  an  English  garrison  besieged 
in  a  foreign  city  by  the  cruel  yellow  people.  The 
first  thing  to  do,  after  the  investment  began,  was  to 
write  to  the  far-off  friends  and  put  the  letters  in  the 
safe,  so  that  they  would  know,  in  case  the  promised 
relief  came  too  late.  Other  wise  precautions  were 
taken.  At  the  ringing  of  a  bell,  all  the  women  and 
children  were  to  assemble  in  one  place,  if  the  foe 
broke  in.  But  they  were  not  to  be  allowed  to  fall 
into  the  hands  of  the  torturers  alive.  These  were 
among  the  possibilities  our  little  college  girl  had  to 
face  through  weeks  of  agony.  Quenching  fire  under 
a  sleet  of  bullets,  and  the  pitiful  mother's  tragedy, 
when  the  long  strain  was  over,  —  these  things  she 
has  known,  but  neither  she  nor  her  friends  will  speak 
of  them  willingly  as  long  as  they  live. 


LITTLE   COLLEGE   GIRLS  51 

The  college  girl  will  play  a  part  of  increasing  im 
portance  in  the  community;  but  as  yet  the  commu 
nity  has  done  very  little  for  the  college  girl,  in  Can 
ada  at  least.  Coeducation  is  a  temporary  makeshift, 
due  to  the  national  poverty.  The  time  is  coming 
when  our  women  will  have  their  education  apart, 
when  it  will  be  shaped  to  their  needs,  capacities, 
tastes,  and  destiny.  There  is  already  such  a  college, 
where  the  students  have  grown  from  less  than  a 
score  to  over  a  thousand  in  its  short  lifetime  of 
twenty-five  years.  It  is  in  a  beautiful  country  town, 
in  a  broad  valley  between  ranges  of-^serrated  hills. 
The  college  is  the  result  of  a  large  plan  intelligently 
carried  out.  The  girls  are  not  allowed  to  drift  into 
casual  boarding-houses,  nor  are  they  herded  in  huge 
dormitories.  They  live  in  little  homes,  ten  or  twenty 
together,  under  the  care  of  one  of  the  staff.  There 
is  a  homelike  air  about  the  place  that  strikes  the 
stranger  at  once.  An  ample  gymnasium,  a  picture 
gallery,  a  library,  a  chapel  where  I  saw  the  whole 
college  at  their  orisons,  classrooms,  laboratories, 
hammocks  under  the  apple  trees  about  the  tennis- 
courts,  are  among  the  more  obvious  provisions  for 
the  education  of  the  lucky  girls  who  can  attend 
this  college. 

Our  Canadian  girls  deserve  as  good  treatment. 


THE  VANITY  OF   TRAVEL 


THE    VANITY  OF    TRAVEL 


IN  academic  circles  it  is  tacitly  assumed  that  travel 
is  an  essential  of  education,  or  experience,  or  cul 
ture.  On  the  aspirant  for  scholastic  fame  is  laid  the 
heavy  necessity  of  having  at  least  seen  Germany.  His 
ability  to  cap  allusions  to  the  Alps  with  modern  in 
stances  from  the  Apennines  and  the  river  Po  is  taken 
for  granted  and  reckoned  as  a  necessary  part  of  his 
learned  luggage.  The  admission  that  he  has  not  trav 
elled  is  made  with  shame  and  confusion  of  face,  or,  if 
resolutely  brazened  out,  with  a  secret  sinking  of  the 
heart;  and  such  admission  is  received  wTith  a  lifting 
of  the  eyebrows,  the  rising  inflection  on  "Indeed!" 
and,  henceforward,  a  certain  condescension  on  the 
part  of  the  interlocutor.  As  Johnson  said,  "The  man 
who  has  not  been  in  Italy  is  always  conscious  of  an 
inferiority,  from  his  not  having  seen  what  a  man  is 
expected  to  see."  Outside  the  schools  and  colleges, 
the  same  opinion  prevails.  In  a  cis-Atlantic  com 
munity,  one  symptom  of  new-gotten  wealth  is  the 
sudden  flitting  to  Europe  of  Dives'  womankind. 

55 


56     LIFE   OF  A  LITTLE   COLLEGE 

And  yet,  after  his  happy  return  from  the  grand  tour, 
not  only  long  desired  and  long  prepared  for,  but  en 
joyed  to  the  full  under  well-nigh  ideal  conditions,  the 
thoughtful  soul  retires  to  his  own  roof-tree  once  more 
and  ponders  his  gains.  What  has  he  in  exchange  for 
his  outlay  in  time  and  money?  What  has  been  the 
reaction  of  his  new  experience  upon  the  whole  man? 
Has  he  added  even  the  fraction  of  a  cubit  to  his  mental 
stature?  Has  he  acquired  that  mysterious  quality  of 
"  breadth,"  which  travel  is  supposed  to  confer?  Or 
can  it  be  possible  that  the  benefits  accruing  from  travel 
have  been  overrated?  May  not  this  faith  in  the  virtue 
of  the  modern  pilgrimage  be  simply  a  newer  kind  of 
fetish-worship? 

The  value  of  travel  as  a  means  of  culture  must  be 
overrated,  because  it  is  a  matter  of  common  remark 
that  a  man  may  traverse  the  five  continents  and  come 
home  as  dull  an  ass,  as  complete  a  philistine,  as  rude 
an  oaf,  as  when  he  started.  On  the  other  hand,  home 
bred  folk  who  have  hardly  strayed  from  their  birth 
place  may  be  thoughtful,  well-read,  humane,  sympa 
thetic,  agreeable,  charming.  If  broad  sympathies, 
wide  interests,  fine  character,  gentle  manners  were  im 
possible  of  attainment  without  wanderings  in  foreign 
parts,  the  world  would  be  poor,  indeed.  An  authentic 
case  of  conversion  were  greatly  to  be  desired.  If  rec 
ords  existed  to  show  narrow-minded  persons  becoming 


THE   VANITY   OF   TRAVEL        57 

broad-minded  after  travel,  or  churlish  persons,  cour 
teous,  or  stupid  persons,  intelligent,  the  sceptic  would 
be  silenced.  Observe  your  rich  neighbours  who  en 
joyed  last  summer  for  the  first  time  the  advantages 
of  a  trip  to  England.  Listen  to  their  instructive 
conversation.  Do  you  notice  any  decided  improve 
ment  in  their  mind,  manners,  or  morals?  Have  they 
brought  back  with  them  much  more  than  data  re 
garding  the  weather  and  the  hotel  rates?  In  your 
pilgrimage  through  the  world  you  will  indeed  be  for 
tunate  if  you  meet  with  a  man  of  wider  intellectual 
cultivation  than  Charles  Lamb,  the  cockney  in  grain, 
who  never  travelled  farther  from  his  beloved  London 
than  to  Margate,  or  to  Mackery  End  in  Hertfordshire. 
Samuel  Johnson  could  spend  weeks  in  France,  could 
see  portents  like  beautiful,  doomed  Marie  Antoinette 
going  hunting  in  the  park  at  Versailles,  and  could  dis 
cover  nothing  more  important  than  that  the  French 
were  an  indelicate  people  because  one  footman  used 
his  fingers  instead  of  the  sugar-tongs. 

Travel  cannot  be  essential  to  culture.  It  would  be 
like  making  a  knowledge  of  the  Scriptures  in  the  orig 
inal  tongues  essential  to  the  Christian  life.  In  spite 
of  Cook  and  modern  cheapness,  travel  is  even  now  a 
luxury  reserved  for  the  few.  Not  every  one  may  fare 
to  Corinth.  Only  since  the  perfecting  of  steam  trans 
portation  by  land  and  sea  has  travel  been  possible 


5  8     LIFE  OF  A  LITTLE  COLLEGE 

except  for  the  very  rich,  or  the  very  hardy.  But 
strong  men  lived  before  Agamemnon,  and  true  cul 
ture  existed  in  many  a  century  before  the  nineteenth. 
Duty,  force  of  circumstances,  want  of  pence  may  close 
foreign  ports  to  you  all  your  life  long.  Death  may 
overtake  you  before  you  see  St.  Paul's  cross  shine  over 
city  and  river,  or  the  sun  set  beyond  Janiculum,  or  the 
moon  rise  over  Hymettus.  But  the  world  of  books 
is  never  barred;  the  abysses  of  the  starry  sky  and 
of  your  own  mind  always  await  your  exploration, 
wherever  your  home  may  be.  Life  by  itself  is  a  stren 
uous  cultivator  of  the  soul,  ploughing  deep  and  har 
rowing  and  stirring  to  its  very  depths  and  watering 
with  plentiful  tears.  What  Carlyle  called  "the  usual 
destinies"  —  our  slow  learning  of  so  little,  bread- 
winning,  mating,  birth  of  children,  loss  and  gain,  suc 
cess  and  failure  —  these  things  which  make  the  com 
mon  lot,  if  rightly  understood  and  wisely  accepted, 
are  culture  of  the  best.  If  one  were  given  the  choice 
between  early  marriage  and  a  year  in  Europe!  And 
yet  your  prudent  academic  person  will  choose  to  know 
rather  than  to  live,  and  defers  matrimony  until  his 
Entwickelung  has  been  sufficiently  advanced  by  va 
cations  and  "sabbaticals"  abroad.  Then,  in  canny 
middle  age,  he  looks  about  for  the  lass  with  the  tocher. 
Though  such  commonplace  considerations  must 
occur  to  every  reflective  mind,  the  tide  of  travel  is 


THE  VANITY  OF  TRAVEL       59 

ever  rising.  In  the  summer  season  the  ferry-boats  of 
the  Atlantic  shift  travellers  by  tens  of  thousands  from 
the  New  World  to  the  Old.  Some  are  intent  on  busi 
ness  errands,  some  have  fixed,  educational  aims,  but 
the  majority  are  travelling  for  the  sake  of  the  pleas 
ure  and  profit  obtainable  from  seeing  sights.  They 
are  the  tourists.  They  are  the  mainstay  of  conti 
nental  hotels,  pensions,  and  pleasure-resorts.  They 
have  made  every  nation  in  Europe  as  familiar  with 
the  Stars  and  Stripes  as  with  that  nation's  own  ban 
ner.  They  are  to  be  seen  driving  through  the  streets 
of  foreign  capitals  in  strings  of  barouches,  or  hustled 
by  guides  through  cathedrals,  museums,  and  galler 
ies,  or  "doing"  the  Alps  and  the  Rhine  with  one  eye 
on  the  scenery  and  the  other  on  their  Baedeker.  They 
drift  across  the  land  in  hordes.  They  are  everywhere 
contemned  and  spoken  against.  Their  initiated  com 
patriot  winds  them  afar  and  flees  from  their  presence. 

To  despise  a  fellow  mortal  is  always  easy  and 
rather  cheap :  "  'T  is  not  in  folly  not  to  scorn  a  fool " ; 
but  the  universal  attitude  toward  the  tourist  is  not 
to  be  explained  so  readily.  To  understand  the 
pecore  di  Cook,  as  the  Italians  call  them,  the  tour 
ists  of  all  nations  who  bear  the  "mark  of  the  beast" 
i.  e.,  Baedeker,  is  somewhat  harder  than  to  repeat 
stale  gibes.  I  wish  I  felt  equal  to  the  task. 

Sight-seeing  is  the  tourist's  chief  aim  in  travel,  and 


60     LIFE   OF   A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

this  incident  illustrates  his  procedure.  One  July,  a 
certain  traveller  tried  on  two  different  days  to  see 
"  Mona  Lisa  "  in  the  Salon  Carre  of  the  Louvre.  Now, 
seeing  a  picture  is  a  slow,  complicated,  and  by  no 
means  easy  process.  In  the  first  place,  the  light  must 
fall  right,  that  is,  it  must  come  from  behind  the  spec 
tator's  back,  or  the  picture  is  practically  invisible. 
With  the  light  right,  it  takes  some  time  even  for  the 
one  person  out  of  every  ten  who  is  blessed  with  normal 
vision  to  make  out  the  details  of  any  picture.  There 
is  the  work  of  picking  out  and  then  grouping  and  ar 
ranging  forms  and  colours.  The  eye  has  to  penetrate 
a  sort  of  haze  of  half-seen  things  to  get  at  the  picture 
at  all.  The  brain  must  be  actively  alert  to  assist  the 
eye  in  perceiving  what  is  before  it.  Any  one  who  has 
ever  taken  a  drawing-lesson  knows  the  difference  be 
tween  seeing  one  cube  set  on  another  as  a  mere  process 
of  recognition  and  seeing  the  model  as  it  really  is,  a 
relation  of  lights  and  shadows,  planes  and  surfaces. 
The  difference  is  incalculable.  Having  penetrated 
this  haze,  the  spectator's  eye  has  yet  to  receive  aes 
thetic  pleasure  from  the  picture.  In  other  words,  the 
spectator  must  see  the  picture  somewhat  as  the  artist 
did.  Unless  he  is  able  to  share  in  some  minute  de 
gree  the  artist's  creative  delight,  he  has  not  really 
seen  the  picture.  He  may  have  recognized  it,  or  iden 
tified  it,  or  have  satisfied  a  thin  curiosity  about  it, 


THE   VANITY   OF   TRAVEL       61 

but  unless  he  has  felt  some  thrill  or  throb,  at  least 
as  warm  as  that  excited  by  the  prospect  of  dinner, 
he  has  not  seen  the  picture.  Seeing  a  picture  in  this 
sense  demands  just  exactly  the  price  the  tourist  will 
not  pay;  that  is,  time.  No  work  of  art  yields  up  its 
secret  readily.  How  can  the  average  man  fathom  in 
a  few  seconds  a  design  which  it  took  genius  weeks  or 
months  to  elaborate? 

The  traveller  found  the  centre  of  the  Salon  Carre 
fenced  off  by  a  flimsy  railing  (possibly  for  repairs), 
which  made  it  impossible  to  get  "Mona  Lisa"  in  the 
right  light.  He  was  either  too  near  or  too  far  away, 
no  matter  how  he  edged  along  the  barricade.  If  the 
floor  space  had  been  free,  he  could  have  shifted  to 
the  proper  distance  and  angle  from  which  to  begin 
seeing  Leonardo's  masterpiece,  but  that  unlucky 
railing  was  always  in  the  way.  He  had  to  pass  on 
at  last,  and  solace  himself  with  the  marvellous  detail 
and  colour  of  "La  Femme  Hydropique."  So,  in 
spite  of  the  best  will  in  the  world,  he  did  not  see 
"Mona  Lisa;"  and  then  she  was  spirited  away. 

During  the  half-hour  he  spent  in  vainly  manoeu 
vring  for  position,  at  least  eighty  persons  passed  be 
tween  the  railing  and  the  picture.  If  each  individual 
directed  his  eyes  full  upon  the  canvas  for  thirty 
seconds,  it  was  the  utmost  time  he  devoted  to  it. 
He  heard  what  the  guide  said,  ticked  off  the  title  in 


62     LIFE   OF  A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

his  Baedeker  and  passed  on  in  procession  to  the  next 
picture,  and  the  next  room,  and  so  on  through  the 
Louvre.  Even  if  the  picture  left  some  impression  on 
the  retina  which  was  transmitted  to  the  brain,  it 
must  have  been  at  once  overlaid,  confused,  blurred 
and  blotted  by  the  train  of  swift  succeeding  impres 
sions.  The  capacity  of  the  brain  for  receiving  and 
retaining  impressions  is  limited  and  the  saturation 
point  is  soon  reached. 

It  would  appear,  then,  that  the  average  tourist  is 
continually  defeated  in  the  main  object  of  his  tour. 
He  spends  time  and  money  and  effort  to  see  sights; 
and  he  does  not  see  them.  Little  wonder  then  that 
the  average  tourist  cannot  be  reverenced  as  wise. 
If  he  cannot  even  see  his  sights,  the  amount  of  edu 
cation,  experience,  culture  he  derives  from  travel 
must  be  practically  nil.  If  he  receives  pleasure,  his 
face  does  not  show  it.  Picture  galleries  are  the  nur 
series  of  boredom  and  fatigue.  Two  remarks  over 
heard  that  July  day  in  the  Salon  Carre  were  "Das 
ist  billig  auch"  from  a  plump  little  Hausfrau,  and 
"Haven't  I  seen  all  the  pictures  and  all  the  statu 
ary?  "  from  a  nice  American  girl  of  ten,  trailing  wearily 
in  the  wake  of  a  family  party.  What  that  crowd  did 
in  the  Louvre,  they  would  do  again  in  the  Luxem 
bourg  and  the  other  show-places  of  Paris,  and  what 
they  did  in  Paris,  they  would  repeat  in  the  other  cities 


THE   VANITY   OF   TRAVEL       63 

of  Europe.  After  weeks  of  fatigue  and  discomfort, 
they  will  return  to  their  own  place,  with  an  exhausted 
letter  of  credit  and  a  severe  fit  of  mental  indigestion. 
Their  photographs  and  souvenirs  and  picture  post 
cards  and  well-marked  Baedekers  will  be  alive  to 
testify  that  they  have  seen  certain  things.  That 
knowledge  must  represent  the  utmost  extent  of  the 
profit  they  have  derived  from  their  travail. 

The  motive  which  impels  thousands  upon  thousands 
to  endure  so  much  labour  and  sorrow  for  such  paltry 
returns  is  precisely  the  motive  which  sends  thousands 
to  Lourdes  and  Sain te- Anne  de  Beaupre.  It  is  the 
expectation  of  miracle.  An  innate,  universal,  undy 
ing  instinct  of  romance  sways  mankind  from  the  cradle 
to  the  grave.  The  lure  of  the  unknown  which  fills 
religious  houses,  supports  the  institution  of  marriage 
and  fits  out  Arctic  expeditions,  also  draws  the  tripper 
to  the  seaside  and  the  Cook's  tourist  to  Paris.  The 
unknown,  the  novel,  the  strange  may  have  magical 
power.  Here,  at  home,  we  are  poor  creatures,  but 
change  our  environment  and  we  shall  be  different. 
The  poor  save,  and  the  unnecessarily  rich  squander, 
for  the  same  end.  Both  fondly  hope  that  the  mere 
sight  of  strange  coasts,  of  storied  cities  in  alien  lands, 
of  pictures,  cathedrals,  mountains  will  effect  some 
agreeable  change  in  their  personalities,  and  continue 
as  a  bright  influence  throughout  their  lives.  Perhaps 


6 4     LIFE   OF  A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

they  have  not  clearly  considered  the  nature  of  that 
change,  but  one  and  all  expect  it  to  arise  from  their 
contact  with  the  unknown;  and  one  and  all  are  dis 
appointed. 

Perhaps  those  curious  German  tourists  one  sees  in 
Switzerland  are  not  disappointed.  Those  flat-chested, 
shapeless  women,  those  stocky  men  with  balustrade 
legs,  arrayed  in  travesties  of  Norfolk  jackets  and 
knickers,  all  furnished  with  Rucksacks  and  alpen 
stocks,  are  probably  to  themselves  embodiments  of 
romance.  They  have  forsaken  their  offices  and  their 
kitchens  for  a  fortnight's  holiday  on  a  circular  ticket; 
but  for  the  time  being,  they  are  living  in  a  fairy-tale. 
The  alpenstock  is  the  modern  equivalent  for  the 
Pilgerstab,  of  which  a  thousand  German  ballads  sing. 
As  they  march  from  one  hotel  to  another,  they  feel 
themselves  to  be  wandering  through  the  wide  world 
like  the  heroes  of  a  thousand  Maerchen.  They  know 
that  there  is  many  a  road  and  many  a  by-way  they 
have  not  yet  footed,  and  many  a  brew  of  beer  they 
have  never  tested;  and  so  they  carry  their  atmosphere 
with  them,  the  atmosphere  of  romance. 

II 

If  one  turns  from  his  own  meagre,  personal  expe 
rience  to  interrogate  literature  on  the  subject  of  travel, 


THE   VANITY   OF   TRAVEL        65 

and  to  gather  up  the  opinions  of  the  wise,  he  finds  that 
the  oracles  give  various  responses. 

Shakespeare  seems  to  countenance  the  theory  that 
travel  bestows  "breadth,"  by  laying  down  the  prop 
osition  that  home-keeping  youths  have  ever  homely 
wits.  Presumably  then,  youths  sharpen  their  wits  by 
leaving  home.  At  the  same  time,  by  the  lips  of  his 
most  delightful  characters,  Portia,  Rosalind,  Faul- 
conbridge,  he  quizzes  merrily  the  contemporary 
traveller  for  his  affectation,  his  conceit,  his  gen 
eral  absurdity.  The  Englishman  who  returned  from 
the  continent  with  elaborate  foreign  manners,  for 
eign  raiment,  foreign  vices,  offered  a  fair  target 
for  the  shafts  of  satire.  Shakespeare  ranges  himself 
on  the  side  of  Ascham  and  the  rest  of  the  Eliza 
bethan  moralists  in  disapproval  of  his  "Italianate" 
countrymen. 

No  later  essayist  has  excelled  Bacon  in  stating  gen 
eral  truths  about  travel  within  the  narrowest  com 
pass.  With  the  younger  sort,  he  holds,  travel  is  a 
part  of  education,  and,  with  the  older  sort,  a  part  of 
experience.  He  sums  up  exhaustively  the  things 
which  should  engage  the  traveller's  attention;  he 
recommends  some  reading  by  way  of  preparation, 
some  smattering  at  least  of  foreign  tongues  and  the 
use  of  a  Baedeker.  Curiously  enough,  he  seems  to 
admit  a  value  in  the  superficial  by  advising  not  too 


66     LIFE   OF   A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

long  a  stay  in  one  place.  Regarding  the  benefits  to 
accrue  from  travel,  he  is  not  rapturous. 

If  Milton  nowhere  expressly  recommends  travel, 
his  own  practice  puts  his  opinion  of  its  value  beyond 
all  doubt.  Travel  with  him  formed  a  part  of  his 
elaborate,  lifelong  scheme  of  self -education.  His  prep 
aration  for  his  Italian  journey  was  thorough;  and  the 
fifteen  months  he  spent  abroad  were  in  all  likelihood 
the  happiest  portion  of  his  life.  At  thirty  he  was  still 
young  enough  to  enjoy,  while  his  years  at  the  uni 
versity,  his  quiet  reading  at  Horton,  his  Italian  stud 
ies,  and  his  intimacy  with  the  Diodati  family  must 
have  made  his  scholarly  equipment  singularly  com 
plete.  Doubtless  no  Englishman  ever  went  to  Italy 
better  fitted  than  Mr.  John  Milton  to  understand 
and  profit  by  all  he  saw.  With  a  full  purse,  he  was 
able  to  travel  like  a  gentleman,  attended  by  a  servant, 
and  to  collect  books  and  music.  He  had  introduc 
tions  of  the  best,  and  met  distinguished  people  wher 
ever  he  went.  Handsome,  learned,  accomplished,  the 
young  English  scholar  was  feted  and  flattered  in  one 
city  after  another  by  the  most  courteous  race  in  the 
world.  The  results  in  both  experience  and  culture 
must  have  been  rich,  though  they  are  not  perhaps  to 
be  traced  in  his  work. 

The  mellow  urbanity  which  distinguishes  the  "  Spec 
tator"  may  be  justly  set  down  to  Addison's  long, 


THE   VANITY   OF   TRAVEL        67 

leisurely  travels  abroad.  He  was  three  years  younger 
than  Milton  when  he  set  out  on  his  grand  tour,  and, 
like  Milton,  was  fitted  by  previous  studies  to  appre 
ciate  what  he  was  to  see.  In  four  years,  he  gained 
an  unrivalled  knowledge  of  all  Europe  that  was 
worth  knowing.  King  William  provided  him  with  a 
handsome  pension;  and  he  had  no  anxieties  except  to 
improve  his  mind.  Johnson  laughs  at  his  "Notes  on 
Italy/'  and  his  work  on  medals,  and  they  cannot  be 
called  inspiring.  Addison  in  his  later  writings  never 
flings  his  travels  in  his  readers'  face.  Except  for  an 
occasional  allusion,  one  would  hardly  be  aware  that 
he  had  travelled;  but  his  attitude  towards  English 
life,  and  especially  English  politics,  must  be  attributed 
to  the  fact  that  he  had  been  able  for  so  long  to  regard 
them  from  a  distance  which  revealed  their  real  pro 
portions.  Still,  Addison  remained  unenlightened  in 
regard  to  art.  He  could  see  no  beauty  in  Siena  Cathe 
dral.  To  him  it  is  only  another  of  "these  barbarous 
buildings,"  in  the  Gothic  manner,  which  he  can  still 
tolerate  because  he  has  seen  St.  Peter's. 

Gray's  case  provides  the  classical  argument  for 
travel.  His  eyes  were  opened  and  he  saw  what  no 
man  before  had  seen.  He  saw  the  Alps.  The  shy, 
silent,  gifted  youth,  familiar  only  with  Eton  and  Cam 
bridge,  and  the  gentle,  domesticated,  English  land 
scape,  was  brought  face  to  face  with  the  wonder  and 


68     LIFE   OF   A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

mystery  of  high  hills.  Not  only  were  his  bodily  eyes 
unsealed,  but  the  inward  vision  was  purged  as  with 
euphrasy  and  rue.  The  Grande  Chartreuse,  which 
was  to  inspire  some  of  Arnold's  noblest,  saddest  music, 
performed  the  miracle.  Every  one  knows  the  famous 
sentences,  all  glowing  beneath  their  eighteenth-century 
precision:  "Not  a  precipice,  not  a  torrent,  not  a  cliff 
but  is  pregnant  with  religion  and  poetry.  There  are 
certain  scenes  that  would  awe  an  atheist  into  belief 
without  the  help  of  other  argument.  One  need  not 
have  a  very  fantastic  imagination  to  see  spirits  there 
at  noonday;  you  have  Death  perpetually  before  your 
eyes,  only  so  far  removed  as  to  compose  the  mind 
without  frighting  it."  Since  Gray  wrote  these  lines 
to  West,  at  Turin  in  1739,  many  have  rhapsodized  on 
mountains,  but  no  one  has  packed  more  meaning 
into  fewer,  finer  words. 

Gray's  travelling  companion  was  his  ancient  friend 
at  school  and  college,  "Horry"  Walpole,  the  great 
letter-writer,  gossip,  and  dilettante  of  Strawberry 
Hill.  He  saw  everything  that  Gray  saw,  but  whereas 
Gray  looked  out  upon  the  world  with  the  fresh  eye 
of  childhood  and  had  a  vision  of  God,  Walpole  stared 
blankly  at  Alps  and  foreign  civilizations  through  a 
modish  quizzing-glass,  and  saw  nothing.  He  returned 
from  Italy  as  shallow  as  when  he  went.  One  shall  be 
taken  and  another  left. 


THE   VANITY   OF   TRAVEL        69 

Wanderings  abroad  in  the  eighteenth  century 
created  two  little  masterpieces,  "The  Traveller" 
arid  "A  Sentimental  Journey."  Without  the  mental 
ferment  which  contact  with  foreign  countries  sets 
up,  they  could  not  have  been  written.  The  profit 
Goldsmith  drew  from  his  two  years  of  obscure  vaga 
bondage  was  a  poem  that  made  him  famous,  but  it 
does  not  once  hint  that  he  found  travel  a  pleasure. 
His  vagrant  days  beside  the  murmuring  Loire,  his 
prospect  of  Lombardy  from  the  Alpine  solitude 
must  have  left  their  bright  impression  upon  his  sensi 
tive  nature;  intercourse  with  the  French  must  have 
deepened  his  natural  kindliness,  but  they  seem  to 
have  brought  him  little  joy.  Goldsmith  is  always 
the  Exile  of  Erin.  The  note  of  melancholy  echoes 
through  the  poem  to  the  very  end.  His  review  of 
European  society  in  support  of  his  untenable  thesis 
is  underlain  by  the  inexpugnable,  haunting  home 
sickness  of  the  Irishman.  Every  stage  of  his  journey 
away  from  the  dear  faces  glowing  in  the  fire  on  the 
hearth,  merely  lengthens  his  chain  and  makes  it 
heavier  to  bear. 

Trailing  about  from  barracks  to  barracks  with 
the  baggage  of  his  father's  regiment,  little  Laurence 
Sterne  picked  up  a  broad  and  genial  knowledge  of 
mankind,  and  when,  as  a  middle-aged  scampish 
parson,  he  crossed  the  Channel  into  France,  he  felt 


70     LIFE   OF  A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

that  he  was  coming  home.  The  first  sentence  of 
"A  Sentimental  Journey"  has  become  a  proverb, 
arid  by  itself  furnishes  proof  positive  of  the  author's 
triumph  over  insular  prejudice.  Let  prudes  say 
what  they  will,  Sterne  is  the  pleasantest  of  travel 
ling  companions.  His  very  sentimentality  was  an 
attempt  to  soften  an  age  as  hard  as  the  nether  mill 
stone.  A  little  Sterne  was  surely  needed  to  mollify 
much  Hogarth  and  Smollett. 

Of  course  Johnson's  opinion  of  travel  is  recorded. 
The  Great  Cham  had  his  views  on  all  the  chief  con 
cerns  of  life.  "He  talked  (at  Mr.  William  Scott's 
dinner-table  in  the  Temple)  with  an  uncommon 
animation  of  travelling  into  distant  countries,  that 
the  mind  was  enlarged  by  it,  and  that  an  acquisi 
tion  of  dignity  of  character  was  derived  from  it." 
But  he  had  a  very  distant  objective  in  his  mind,  to 
wit,  the  Great  Wall  of  China.  Travel,  to  Johnson 
and  to  his  friends,  meant  discovery  of  the  unknown. 
Boswell  "catched"  the  enthusiasm  of  curiosity  and 
adventure  when  he  wished  to  accompany  Captain 
Cook  on  his  voyage  to  the  South  Seas.  Johnson  re 
fused  to  write  an  account  of  his  travels  in  France 
because  the  subject  was  overdone,  because  he  had 
nothing  new  to  say,  because  he  had  not  remained 
long  enough,  because  he  was  afraid  of  being  laughed 
at.  Boswell  urged  with  justice  that  even  when  we 


THE   VANITY   OF   TRAVEL        71 

have  seen  a  face  often,  it  gains  interest  from  being 
painted  by  Sir  Joshua.  He  knew  the  value  of  tem 
perament.  Their  romantic  expedition  to  the  Hebrides 
was  in  truth  a  voyage  of  discovery.  Here  Boswell 
and  Johnson  come  into  competition,  and  the  disciple 
proves  himself  a  better  traveller  than  his  master,  or 
at  least,  a  better  recorder  of  travel. 

The  rise  of  the  Romantic  School  in  literature  stim 
ulated  enormously  the  latent  appetite  for  travel; 
for  the  Romantic  School  discovered  Gothic  archi 
tecture  and  mountains;  and  these  do  not  grow  by 
every  hedge.  To  see  them,  one  must  travel.  Words 
worth  crossed  Europe  on  foot,  and  his  sojourn  in 
France  definitely  opened  his  mind  to  new  ideas,  for 
he  became  an  ardent  upholder  of  the  Revolution. 
Coleridge  spent  a  winter  in  Germany  and  brought 
back  a  philosophy.  Scott's  poetry  doubled  the  post 
ing-rates  into  Scotland.  But  the  vogue  of  Byron, 
and  especially  of  "Childe  Harold,"  must  be  held 
chiefly  responsible  for  what  Carlyle  calls  "the  modern 
disease  of  view-hunting."  On  the  Continent,  Rous 
seau  preached  with  success  "Return  to  Nature." 
Then  steam  made  travel  by  land  and  sea  both  cheap 
and  rapid,  and  everybody  travelled.  So  the  assump 
tion  took  shape  that  travel  should  form  an  essential 
part  of  education,  or  experience  or  culture.  It  is  a 
thing  of  yesterday. 


72     LIFE   OF  A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

All  that  can  be  safely  inferred  from  the  record  of 
literature  and  the  lives  of  great  men  is  that  genius 
will  profit  by  travel,  as  it  will  profit  by  any  expe 
rience.  The  degree  of  profit  will  vary  greatly. 
Winckelmann's  visit  to  Rome  gave  the  world  a  new 
conception  of  classic  art  and  founded  modern  scholar 
ship.  Goethe  considered  that  his  two  Italian  jour 
neys  exerted  a  great  influence  upon  him;  but  the 
literary  outcome  was  the  " Roman  Elegies,"  which 
the  world  has  very  willingly  let  die.  But  genius  is 
rare;  it  is  the  value  of  travel  for  the  many  which 
must  be  determined. 

What  is  'vaguely  called  "breadth"  is  generally 
assumed  to  be  a  valuable  quality  and  to  be  the  chief 
reaction  of  travel.  As  the  work  of  the  world  is  done 
by  "narrow"  people,  as  all  religions,  reforms,  and 
revolutions  spring  from  the  "narrowness"  of  men 
who  believe  themselves  to  be  right  and  their  oppo 
nents  wrong,  it  is  possible  that  the  value  of  "breadth " 
may  be  overrated.  That  travel  is  a  sure  cure  for 
national  prejudices  is  scarcely  borne  out  by  the  facts. 
Even  where  national  differences  are  slightest,  as, 
for  example,  between  the  English  and  the  Americans, 
it  cannot  be  maintained  that  intercourse  between 
the  two  peoples  conquers  the  insular  or  the  provin 
cial  spirit.  The  long  line  of  British  travellers  in  the 
United  States,  from  Basil  Hall  and  Mrs.  Trollope 


THE   VANITY   OF   TRAVEL       73 

to  Matthew  Arnold,  manifest  narrowness  rather  than 
breadth  in  their  judgment.  They  return  from  their 
travels  generally  confirmed  in  their  home-bred  dis 
like  for  the  people  they  have  visited.  The  same  is 
true  of  American  travellers  to  England,  with  the 
notable  exception  of  Emerson.  Even  Hawthorne 
dislikes  the  English  people,  while  admiring  the 
country.  English  travellers  on  the  continent  are 
not  conspicuous  for  breadth  of  mind,  and  their  re 
corded  impressions  are  generally  expansions  and  va 
riations  of  MeynelTs  famous  dictum,  "For  all  I  can 
see,  foreigners  are  fools."  Thackeray  travelled  much; 
as  a  young  man  he  resided  in  Weimar,  and  took 
tea  once  (at  midday)  with  the  godlike  Goethe;  but 
in  his  novels,  he  supports  the  popular  English  no 
tion  that  Frenchmen  and  Germans  are  poor  creatures, 
made  to  be  laughed  at. 

Foreigners  return  the  compliment  with  energy. 
The  average  French  traveller's  account  of  the  mad 
English  manners  and  customs  is  just  as  absurd  as 
the  average  British  traveller's  view  of  the  frivolous 
Gauls.  Once  in  a  decade  or  so,  a  book  like  Hamer- 
ton's  "French  and  English"  appears,  or  Pierre  de 
Coulevain's  "L'Isle  Inconnue,"  in  which  an  honest 
effort  is  made  to  do  justice  to  the  alien  race.  But 
the  enlightenment  they  afford  hardly  penetrates  the 
night  of  popular  ignorance.  All  one  nation  knows 


74     LIFE   OF   A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

of  another  is  gross  caricature,  which  travellers 
generally  confirm.  In  his  charming  "  Sensations 
d'ltalie,"  Bourget  makes  a  significant  confession. 
He  tells  of  his  prolonged  efforts  to  understand  the 
English,  of  his  residence  for  weeks  and  months  in 
various  parts  of  the  kingdom,  and  of  his  free  inter 
course  with  all  kinds  of  men  and  women,  high  and 
low.  In  spite  of  his  best  efforts,  he  found  no  answer 
to  the  riddle  of  national  character.  It  is  a  sort  of 
impenetrable  armour-plate.  Where  Bourget  failed, 
lesser  men  will  hardly  succeed. 


Ill 

While,  then,  it  must  be  clear  that,  for  the  majority 
of  mankind,  travel  is  a  modern  superstition,  another 
symptom  of  the  universal  unrest,  that  it  is  almost 
barren  of  real  profit  and  true  pleasure,  that  it  does 
not  always  benefit  even  men  of  genius,  or  soften 
national  prejudices,  there  still  remains  the  problem 
of  its  fascination.  There  is  a  temperament  which 
finds  in  travel  supreme  satisfaction  and  delight.  It 
is  a  childlike  temperament,  at  once  adventurous 
and  dreamy.  It  preserves  to  maturity  the  child's 
universal  curiosity,  the  child's  receptivity,  the  child's 
easy  capacity  for  enjoyment.  Being  vividly  alive, 
" ennui"  and  " boredom"  are  for  it  words  without 


THE   VANITY   OF   TRAVEL        75 

meaning.  The  price  it  has  to  pay  in  bodily  discom 
fort,  it  never  stops  to  reckon.  Stevenson  had  this 
temperament,  and  Boswell,  and  Froissart,  the  true 
"enthusiasm  of  curiosity  and  adventure."  In  his 
fiftieth  year  the  Canon  of  Chimay  set  out  from  Car 
cassonne  for  the  country  of  Gas  ton  de  Foix.  His 
preface  breathes  the  spirit  of  the  happy  traveller: 
"As  yet  I  thank  God  I  have  understanding  of  all 
things  past,  and  my  wit  quick  and  sharp  enough  to 
conceive  all  things  shewed  unto  me  touching  my 
principal  matter  and  my  body  yet  able  to  endure 
and  suffer  pain."  That  must  have  been  one  of  the 
most  delightful  journeys  ever  undertaken.  Frois 
sart  had  an  excellent  travelling  companion  of  his 
own  age,  Sir  Espang  de  Lyon,  who  knew  the  stories 
of  every  strong  place  and  told  them  to  the  great 
historian  as  they  rode  ever  westward.  His  mention 
of  Pamiers  as  "delectable,  standing  among  the  fair 
vines  and  environed  with  a  fair  river,  large  and  clear," 
his  grateful  memory  of  the  four  flagons  of  wine  Sir 
Raymond  of  Lane  brought  to  the  "Star"  at  Tournay, 
as  the  best  "that  I  drank  in  all  my  journey,"  his 
commendation  of  the  hay  and  oats  procurable  at 
Tarbes,  show  how  catholic  was  his  appreciation  of 
the  good  things  along  the  way.  Every  morning 
after  the  knight  had  said  his  prayers,  he  chatted  with 
the  eager  Canon  on  local  history,  "whereby  I  thought 


76     LIFE   OF  A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

my  journey  much  the  shorter,"  and  "every  night 
as  soon  as  we  were  at  our  lodgings,  I  wrote  ever  all 
that  I  heard  in  the  day,  the  better  whereby  to  have 
them  in  remembrance."  In  his  ability  to  enjoy  and 
to  learn,  Froissart  is  the  model  traveller. 

The  fortunate  possessor  of  the  traveller  tempera 
ment  will  have  his  curiosity  aroused  to  the  point  of 
enthusiasm  regarding  foreign  lands,  long  before  he 
has  ever  set  eye  upon  them.  In  spirit  he  has  often 
adventured  thither.  He  will  learn  consciously  or  un 
consciously  much  of  their  history,  their  literature, 
their  art.  He  may  even  acquire  something  of  foreign 
tongues  that  he  may  be  able  to  greet  brothers  of  an 
alien  race.  He  will  pore  over  maps  and  plans  and 
sketch  itineraries.  He  will  map  out  a  hundred  jour 
neys  for  one  that  he  shall  achieve.  He  will  travel  in 
his  armchair  by  his  own  fireside.  He  will  hang  on 
the  lips  of  travellers  who  have  performed  their  pil 
grimage.  All  his  preparation  may  go  for  nought. 
He  may  never  stir  beyond  his  own  parish.  He  may 
die,  as  the  song  says,  without  ever  seeing  Carcas 
sonne;  but  death  itself  shall  not  deprive  him  of  the 
rich  pleasure  of  anticipation. 

Should  his  stars  be  propitious,  anticipation  may 
become  reality.  Some  day  his  dream  may  come  true, 
and  he  will  carry  out  his  long  cherished  design.  He 
will  set  out  with  the  hopes  of  Columbus,  and  he  will 


THE  VANITY  OF  TRAVEL       77 

discover  new  worlds.  It  will  be  impossible  to  disap 
point  him.  Everything  small  or  great,  —  the  coat 
of  arms  on  an  English  engine  and  Giotto's  campanile, 
the  lemonade-seller  by  the  Loggia  dei  Lanzi,  and 
the  Perseus  of  Cellini,  the  pink  hawthorn  beside  the 
Cher,  and  the  mountain  peak  that  hangs  over  Lake 
Lucerne  at  Brunnen  —  each  has  for  him  its  interest 
apart.  His  enthusiasm  of  curiosity  and  adventure 
will  grow  by  what  it  feeds  on.  Cities  and  govern 
ments  of  men,  well-tilled  fields  and  hills  whose  heads 
touch  heaven,  steep,  lonely  paths  and  thronging 
boulevards,  monuments  to  the  heroic  dead,  shrines, 
praying-places,  great  storehouses  of  beautiful  things, 
workmen  in  narrow  alleys  and  dark  shops,  soldiers 
and  sailors  in  strange  uniforms,  mountebanks  at 
street  corners,  —  whatever  is  strange  and  stately 
and  human  will  crowd  impressions  on  his  open, 
eager  mind  without  ever  overloading  it.  He  will  be 
all  eye  and  ear;  and  yet  the  eye  will  not  be  filled  with 
seeing,  nor  the  ear  with  hearing. 

A  lengthened  stay  in  each  place  will  not  be  req 
uisite.  Even  if  he  be  restricted  to  mere  glimpses 
of  strange  lands,  even  if  he  may  only  spend  days 
where  he  would  fain  spend  months,  the  true  traveller 
will  express  the  utmost  sweet  from  every  moment  of 
his  sojourn.  The  first  morsel  of  a  feast  is  more  keenly 
savoured  than  the  last.  One  glance  at  a  foreign 


78     LIFE   OF  A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

sight  may  answer  a  long  considered  question.  Sud 
denly  the  key  may  be  found  to  fit  the  lock.  One 
>stroll  through  the  Luxembourg  gardens  filled  with 
busy  French  housewives,  each  with  her  bit  of  work 
in  her  lap,  may  contradict  a  thousand  scabrous 
novels.  Even  where  the  voyager  fails  to  grasp  the 
meaning  of  what  he  sees,  the  unsolved  mystery  be 
comes  part  of  the  romance  in  which  he  is  living. 

For  the  true  traveller  is  a  king  in  exile,  a  prince 
in  disguise.  In  a  measure  he  has  shed  his  personality 
on  his  departure  from  the  familiar  environment.  He 
has  escaped  from  his  shadow.  He  is  no  longer  plain 
Mr.  Suchanone  known  to  all  in  the  home  place,  but 
that  exciting  thing,  a  stranger  among  strangers. 
He  is  a  mystery  to  his  fellow-passengers  in  the  train 
or  the  other  diners  in  the  cafe;  and  they  are  equally 
mysteries  to  him,  so  many  human  beings,  each  with 
his  own  life,  his  undivulged  and  guarded  secret. 
And  yet  the  true  traveller  is  never  alone  and  never 
feels  far  from  home.  A  mouthful  or  two  of  foreign 
speech  backed  by  good  will  finds  him  friends  in  every 
place.  The  ability  to  make  a  poor  joke  with  his 
neighbour  on  a  bateau-mouche,  or  to  question  his 
gondolier,  or  even  to  ask  his  way  about  a  German 
city  will  procure  the  boon  of  human  intercourse. 
Bacon  was  quite  right  when  he  wrote,  "He  that 
travelleth  into  a  country,  before  he  hath  some  en- 


THE   VANITY   OF   TRAVEL        79 

trance  into  the  language,  goeth  to  school,  and  not 
to  travel." 

Mere  progression,  mere  moving  from  place  to 
place,  continually  toward  the  unknown,  even  what 
dull  people  call  "a  prosaic  railway  journey"  is  the 
traveller's  joy.  Vistas  open  out  on  either  hand, 
alluring  towards  the  sky-line.  What  he  sees  is 
strange  and  new,  but  there  is  beyond  that  hill  some 
thing  still  more  wonderful  which  he  will  never  see. 
Aimless  explorations  of  foreign  thoroughfares,  drift 
ing  with  the  tides  of  life  along  unfamiliar  streets,  are 
long  adventures  crammed  with  episodes.  The  joy 
of  wandering  is  slow  to  pall,  and  it  is  to  be  enjoyed 
at  the  full  when  a  man  shakes  himself  free  of  all 
aids  but  his  native  powers  and  marches  forth  alone 
into  the  wide  world.  Pleasant  enough  in  cities 
though  wandering  be,  it  is  only  in  the  open  country 
that  it  reaches  the  full  growth  of  delight.  Only 
when  the  traveller  has  turned  his  back  on  the  city 
does  he  hear  plainly  far  within  the  deepest  recesses 
of  his  being  the  welling  music  of  nature's  eternal 
wander-song.  Many  poets  have  tried  to  translate  it 
into  mere  words;  and  many  versions  have  rendered 
thus  much,  or  that  part;  but  beyond  question  the 
palm  goes  to  the  German  people.  In  their  speech 
is  the  most  glorious  song  of  the  open  road  ever 
written : — 


8o    LIFE   OF  A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

O  Wandern!    O  Wandern!  du  freie  Burschenlust! 
Da  wehet  Gottes  Odem  so  frisch  in  der  Brust! 
Da  singet  und  jauchzet  das  Herz  zum  Himmelszelt; 
Wie  bist  du  doch  so  schon,  O  du  weite,  weite  Welt.  - 

The  traveller  who  knows  that  song  has  always 
May  about  him.  The  trees  are  bursting  into  leaf, 
the  birds  are  singing  on  every  bough,  and  his  heart 
joins  in  sweet  accord. 

Beyond  all  controversy,  then,  great  is  the  joy  of 
travel,  great  in  anticipation,  great  in  the  actual  mo 
ment,  and  great  also  in  the  golden  retrospect.  Pleas 
ure  is  a  pure  good,  say  the  philosophers,  reacting  on 
and  heightening  the  vitality.  But,  after  all,  the 
pleasure  of  travel  is  only  a  pleasure,  like  any  other; 
and  it  passes.  It  perishes  in  the  using.  It  is  gone, 
like  the  joy  of  a  tearing  gallop,  or  a  full  creel,  or  a 
Christmas  dinner,  or  a  well  won  victory  at  golf,  or 
a  Marie  Hall  concert,  or  a  talk  about  realities  with 
a  friend.  Even  for  the  exceptional  nature,  the  joy 
of  travel  fades  to  a  pleasant  memory  in  a  limbo  of 
pleasant  memories. 

Probably  the  educative  effect  of  travel  is  also  less 
than  people  think.  The  younger  sort  may  be  too 
young  to  profit  by.it,  and  the  older  sort  too  firm  in 
mental  set  to  be  in  any  way  remoulded.  Of  course, 
seeing  is  believing.  Unimaginative  people  must 
have  the  object  before  their  bodily  eyes.  Unless 
they  can  look  on  the  glass  case  in  Greenwich  hospital 


THE   VANITY   OF   TRAVEL        81 

which  holds  Nelson's  coat  with  the  tarnished  orders 
on  the  breast  and  the  jagged  hole  in  the  left  epaulet, 
they  can  never  realize  the  -  heroism  of  Trafalgar. 
But  without  the  sight  of  that  sacred  relic,  thousands 
have  thrilled  to  Southey's  impassioned  prose.  It  is 
also  true  that  even  those  of  suppler  fancy  profit  by 
travelling  through  their  geography  and  history. 
Their  knowledge  gains  in  definite  outline  and  pre 
cision.  It  may  be  conceded  further  that  the  rare, 
predestined  traveller  will  by  travel  deepen  and 
broaden  his  sympathies.  To  stand  in  the  very 
square  that  saw  the  agony  of  Joan  the  Maid,  to  read 
the  one  word  "immerita"  in  her  epitaph  can  unlock 
the  fountain  of  tears.  To  see  Tell's  mountains  is  to 
gain  insight  into  the  progress  of  human  freedom. 
To  wander  through  the  Forum  explains  the  grandeur 
that  was  Rome,  and  the  frieze  at  the  base  of  Victor 
Emmanuel's  statue  of  golden  bronze  glorifies  the 
Risorgimento.  The  tow-boats  on  the  Rhine,  and  the 
factory  chimneys  among  the  ruined  castles  epito 
mize  the  history  of  Germany.  So  much  may  be 
granted.  Still,  more  than  half  the  value  of  such 
impressions  depends  upon  the  previous  preparation, 
or,  to  be  exact,  upon  the  traveller's  knowledge  of 
books;  and  if  he  had  to  choose  between  books  and 
travel,  he  would  not  hesitate  a  minute.  A  man  with 
the  temperament  I  have  tried  to  describe  will,  be- 


82     LIFE   OF   A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

yond  question,  learn  many  things,  enrich  his  ex 
perience  and  acquire  new  impressions  by  a  journey 
to  Rome,  but  he  will  also  enrich  his  experience  and 
gather  fresh  impressions  by  a  ramble  of  a  few  miles 
from  his  own  front  door.  He  is  independent  of  mere 
place.  An  afternoon's  march  over  an  accustomed 
road  up  a  nameless  Pisgah  overlooking  a  valley  and 
a  river,  or  an  hour  alone  on  an  island  of  rock  in  the 
centre  of  a  silent  autumn  landscape  will  disturb  him 
with  the  joy  of  elevated  thoughts.  In  Holy  Week, 
he  may  light  upon  three  crosses  on  a  hillock  near  the 
highway  and  not  far  from  the  city. 

The  truth  seems  to  be  that  for  the  many,  travel  is 
scant  gain,  while  for  the  chosen  few,  most  apt  to 
profit  thereby,  it  is  a  luxury  but  no  necessity. 


TENNYSON   AS  ARTIST 


TENNYSON    AS    ARTIST 


TO  us  who  were  born  and  bred  on  this,  the  hither 
side,  of  the  Atlantic,  the  poetry  of  Tennyson  is, 
and  must  needs  be,  exotic.  As  time  goes  on  and  the 
two  great  branches  of  the  English-speaking  race,  the 
insular  and  the  continental,  grow  further  and  further 
apart  in  their  separate  development  of  national  and 
social  ideals,  the  more  strange  and  foreign  will  his 
work  appear  to  all  who  are  not  British  born.  The 
conditions  of  time  and  place  that  made,  or  modified 
his  verse  are  passing,  if  they  have  not  actually  passed 
away.  It  is  quite  improbable  that  they  will  ever  be 
renewed.  To  his  own  England,  Tennyson  is  already 
the  voice  of  a  bygone  age.  To  us  of  Canada,  he  sings 
of  a  world  almost  as  remote  and  incredible  as  Fairy 
land.  This  region  of  romance  is  the  England  of  the 
early  nineteenth  century7,  the  first  part  of  the  Victorian 
era.  His  life,  his  surroundings,  the  institutions  that 
went  to  form  the  man  and  his  art  are  so  different  from 
our  own,  that  part  of  his  meaning  and  many  of  his 
subtleties  escape  us.  Because  he  writes  our  mother 

85 


86     LIFE   OF  A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

tongue,  we  flatter  ourselves  that  we  understand  him. 
In  a  measure,  we  may  catch  the  air,  but  we  miss  the 
overtones. 

For  Tennyson  is  an  ultra  English  type.  He  is 
an  exponent  of  the  national  shyness  and  love  of 
privacy.  We  live  a  public  or  communistic  life,  herd 
ing  in  flats,  in  hotels,  in  boarding-houses,  conditions 
which  make  home  in  the  old  sense  an  impossibility. 
Throughout  Tennyson's  long  life,  his  house  was  his 
castle.  From  birth  to  death,  the  poet  was  a  recluse, 
as  a  child  in  a  country  rectory,  as  a  student  in  an 
English  college,  as  a  country  gentleman  in  haunts  of 
ancient  peace.  When  Farringford  became  infested 
with  tourists,  he  built  himself  the  more  inaccessible 
fastness  of  Aldworth.  He  attended  an  obsolete  kind 
of  college,  in  which  the  main  interests  of  the  students 
were  literature,  philosophy,  politics  and  art,  and  not 
athletics.  He  grew  up  amid  the  rolling  echoes  of 
England's  long,  fierce,  life-and-death  struggle  with 
Napoleon.  His  early  manhood  was  passed  in  the 
era  of  those  great  political  and  social  changes  that 
made  a  new  England.  Throughout  those  changes,  he 
remained  a  steadfast  though  moderate  conservative. 
His  religion  and  philosophy  were  profoundly  affected 
by  the  new  scientific  conceptions  associated  chiefly 
with  the  name  of  Darwin.  He  was  a  lifelong  admirer 
of  the  great  State  Church  into  which  he  had  been 


TENNYSON   AS   ARTIST  87 

born.  With  it,  he  accepted,  while  he  criticized,  the 
social  fabric  as  he  found  it.  He  was  always  a  member 
of  a  society  aristocratic  in  the  literal  sense,  a  society 
distinguished  by  true  refinement,  intellectual  culture, 
lofty  ethical  standards.  The  organization  of  the 
Church,  the  system  of  education  which  he  knew,  can 
not,  without  special  study,  be  understood  by  Canadi 
ans.  The  very  landscape  he  describes,  the  very  fauna 
and  flora  of  his  verse,  are  strange  and  foreign  to  us. 
Indeed,  the  literature  of  the  daisy,  the  primrose,  the 
daffodil,  the  cowslip,  the  violet  must  always  remain 
but  half  comprehended  by  all  who  have  not  known 
those  flowers  from  childhood.  For  us  these  common 
English  wild  flowers,  almost  weeds,  are  lovely  exotics. 
One  example  will  do  as  well  as  a  hundred.  The 
appeal  of  such  a  verse  as  this  falls  absolutely  dead 
on  Canadian  ears:  — 

The  smell  of  violets,  hidden  in  the  green, 
Pour'd  back  into  my  empty  soul  and  frame 

The  times  when  I  remember  to  have  been 
Joyful  and  free  from  blame. 

In  the  first  place  we  do  not  see  the  picture,  "violets 
hidden  in  the  green."  Our  native  violets  have  colour, 
but  no  perfume.  English  violets  fill  English  meadows. 
Here  they  are  nursed  tenderly  in  hothouses.  Few  of 
us  have  been  so  fortunate  as  to  gather  the  shy  blue 
blossoms  in  an  English  May  from  the  grass  they  hide 


88     LIFE   OF  A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

among,  while  the  hot  sun  fills  the  whole  air  with  their 
delicate,  intoxicating  odour.  In  the  next  place,  our 
associations  with  these  flowers,  no  matter  how  inti 
mately  we  know  them,  must  be  different  from  those 
who  have  seen  them  come  every  spring  since  child 
hood.  English  violets  suggest  to  us  damp  florists7 
shops,  engagements,  and  pretty  girls  on  Sunday  pa>- 
rade.  The  very  last  thing  they  could  suggest  to  us  is 
the  child's  Eden,  the  time  of  our  innocence.  For  Ten 
nyson,  as  for  many  of  his  English  readers,  the  chain 
of  association  between  the  two  is  indissoluble. 

And  the  sense  of  the  difference  between  Tennyson's 
world  and  our  own  grows  stronger  the  more  we  study 
his  work.  We  have  no  eyes  for  the  English  posies 
with  which  the  English  poets  strew  their  pages.  We 
cannot  perceive  the  woodland  and  garden  odours 
those  pages  exhale.  We  have  no  ears  for  the  note  of 
the  cuckoo,  the  carol  of  the  lark,  the  music  of  the 
nightingale  that  ring  and  thrill  through  a  thousand 
English  poems.  To  us  the  poetry  of  the  village  church, 
of  the  cathedral  close,  the  hedgerow,  the  lane,  the 
park,  the  cottage,  the  castle,  the  "great  house,"  has 
one  meaning,  while  for  those  whose  lives  have  been 
spent  with  these  things,  it  has  another  and  quite 
different  meaning.  English  readers  bring  to  the  in 
terpretation  of  Tennyson  a  wealth  of  experience,  asso 
ciation,  affection  we  absolutely  lack.  We  either  miss 


TENNYSON   AS   ARTIST  89 

that  meaning  altogether,  or  feel  it  vaguely,  or  trans 
late  it  into  terms  of  our  own  experience.  Apart  from 
their  own  value  and  significance,  all  these  things  are 
symbols  of  a  life  far  separated  from  our  own. 

Of  this  local  English  life,  Tennyson  is  the  chief 
poet.  There  is  a  certain  insularity  in  him.  His 
sympathies  are  limited.  Critics  like  Taine  and  Dow- 
den  remark  the  English  narrowness  of  his  outlook, 
and  they  are  right.  He  cultivated  his  poetic  garden 
behind  stone  walls.  Perhaps  his  most  characteristic 

lines  are 

There  is  no  land  like  England 
Where'er  the  light  of  day  be. 

There  his  heart  speaks.  This  is  the  first  article  of 
his  practical  working  creed.  Though  he  can  find  flaws 
in  the  social  fabric,  as  in  "Aylmer's  Field"  and 
"Locksley  Hall,"  he  does  not  want  it  torn  down,  or  a 
new-fangled  one  take  its  place.  He  could  not  live  in 
any  other.  Browning,  his  brother  Olympian,  ranges 
Europe  and  European  literatures  for  subjects.  Ten 
nyson  is  generally  content  to  abide  within  the  narrow 
seas  and  the  marches  of  Scotland  and  Wales.  He 
loves  freedom,  but  it  must  be  freedom  of  the  English 
pattern.  He  is  thoroughly  English  in  his  attitude 
toward  foreigners,  "the  lesser  breeds  without  the  law." 
He  is  more  English  than  even  Wordsworth,  who, 
though  he  began  as  a  red  Republican,  ended  as  a 


90     LIFE   OF  A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

Tory  and  a  High  Churchman.  Still  in  his  fervid  youth, 
Wordsworth  could  dance  around  the  table  hand  in 
hand  with  the  Marseillaise  delegates  to  the  Conven 
tion  for  pure  joy  at  the  Revolution.  In  the  "men  of 
July,"  in  the  barricades  of  '48,  Tennyson  could  see 
only  "the  red  fool-fury  of  the  Seine."  In  Scotland, 
Wordsworth  is  moved  to  song  by  the  braes  of  Yarrow, 
the  grave  of  Rob  Roy,  and  the  very  field  where  Burns 
ploughed  up  the  daisy.  In  Edinburgh,  it  is  true, 
Tennyson  writes  of  the  daisy,  but  it  is  a  withered 
flower  in  a  book,  which  recalls  not  Burns  or  Scotland, 
but  his  own  visit  to  Italy. 

The  friendliest  critic  must  concede  that  Tennyson's 
sympathies  are  limited,  that  his  outlook  is  rather 
narrow,  that  his  thinking  is  somewhat  restricted  by 
English  conventions,  that  his  subjects  are  by  prefer 
ence  English  subjects  and  his  landscapes  are  English 
landscapes.  In  a  word,  he  is  not  a  universal,  but  a 
local,  poet,  a  singer  of  the  land  he  was  born  into,  of 
the  one  time  he  knew.  This  may  be  considered  his 
weakness,  but  it  is  also  his  strength.  This  is  a  great 
excellence,  to  body  forth  the  thoughts  and  aspirations, 
to  interpret  in  song  the  life  of  a  nation  throughout  one 
stage  of  its  progress  toward  its  unknown  goal. 

The  charm  of  England  for  the  American  traveller  is 
special  and  unique.  Irving  tried  to  express  it  in  "The 
Sketch-Book,"  Hawthorne  tried  to  express  it  in 


TENNYSON   AS   ARTIST  91 

"Our  Old  Home,"  Howells  tried  to  express  it  in  "Eng 
lish  Films."  This  charm  is  made  up  of  many  parts, 
the  soft,  domestic  landscape,  the  evidence  on  every 
hand  of  a  rich,  ordered,  long-established  civilization, 
the  historical  and  literary  associations.  What  the 
well-attuned  observer  feels  from  without,  Tennyson, 
the  son  of  the  soil,  feels  from  within.  His  poetry  is 
steeped  in  it,  and  moves  in  a  pure,  fine  atmosphere 
of  beauty,  of  dignity,  of  elevated  thought,  of  noble 
emotion.  So  thorough  an  Englishwoman  as  Thack 
eray's  daughter  wrote:  "One  must  be  English  born,  I 
think,  to  know  how  English  is  the  spell  which  this 
great  enchanter  casts  over  us;  the  very  spirit  of  the 
land  descends  upon  us,  as  the  visions  he  evokes  come 
closing  round."  England  cannot  possibly  be  as  beau 
tiful  as  Tennysonland,  for  over  that  broods  the  con 
secration  and  the  poet's  dream.  Still  it  is  a  fair  land, 
rich  in  natural  beauty,  rich  in  memories  of  great  deeds, 
rich  in  great  men,  a  mother  of  nations.  How  far 
soever  the  various  branches  of  our  race  may  diverge, 
our  common  literature  must  remain  a  great  bond,  a 
force  making  for  unity.  So  the  poetry  of  Tennyson 
will  long  continue  to  the  new  nations  the  symbol  of 
what  was  noblest  in  the  life  of  the  home  island,  a 
rallying-point  for  those  souls  that  are  touched  to  the 
finest  issues.  The  wise  Goethe  declares  that  whoever 
wishes  to  understand  a  poet  must  journey  to  the 


92     LIFE   OF   A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

poet's  land.  It  is  also  true  that  the  poetry  arouses 
interest  in  the  poet's  land  and  leads  us  to  think  well 
of  the  people  he  represents.  So  may  a  study  of  verse 
lead  to  a  mutual  knowledge  in  nations,  that  more  and 
more  perfect  understanding  which  makes  for  the  har 
mony  of  the  world  and  was  Tennyson's  own  dream. 

II 

Tennyson  has  been  greatly  praised  as  a  moralist, 
a  philosopher  and  a  religious  teacher.  He  is  not  with 
out  significance  under  every  one  of  these  aspects, 
but  under  none  of  them  did  he  first  come  before  the 
world.  He  was  first,  last,  and  always  an  artist,  an 
artist  born,  an  artist  by  training,  an -artist]  to  the 
tips  of  his  fingers  and  to  the  marrow  of  his  bones.  He 
belongs  to  that  small  band  of  illuminated  spirits  to 
whom  the  universe  reveals  itself  chiefly  as  wonder 
and  beauty.  They  live  in  the  credo  of  Fra  Lippo 
Lippi,  — 

If  you  get  simple  beauty  and  naught  else 
You  get  about  the  best  thing  God  invents. 

They  can  never  rest  until  they  have  embodied  their 
visions  in  outward  form.  Haunted  by  both  the  rap 
ture  of  achievement  and  the  heavy  consciousness  of 
failure,  they  strive  to  interpret  this  basal  principle 
of  the  universe  into  colour,  or  bronze,  or  marble,  or 


TENNYSON  AS  ARTIST  93 

tone,  or  sweet-flowing  words.  From  youth  to  age, 
Tennyson  is  an  artist  whose  chosen  medium  is  lan 
guage,  a  seer  who  renders  into  words  the  visions  of 
beauty  vouchsafed  to  his  eyes;  he  is  a  singer,  a  poet. 
Like  Milton  he  dedicated  his  whole  long  life  to  his 
art.  He  held  no  office,  he  adopted  no  bread-winning 
profession.  He  never  deviated  into  prose.  His  pro 
gramme  of  self-culture  was  never  interrupted  by  any 
Latin  secretaryship,  still  less  by  two  decades  of  noisy 
pamphleteering.  Like  Milton,  he  set  out  with  a  lofty 
conception  of  the  poet's  vocation.  He,  too,  would 
first  make  himself  a  true  poem  if  he  would  not  be 
frustrate  of  his  hope  to  write  well  hereafter  in  laud 
able  things.  He  was  not  content  to  be  the  idle  singer 
of  an  empty  day,  like  Morris,  though  perhaps  he  did 
aspire  on  the  other  hand  to  be,  like  Shelley,  one  of  the 
unacknowledged  legislators  of  the  world.  He  is  him 
self  the  best  example  of  his  own  description :  — 

The  poet  in  a  golden  clime  was  born, 

With  golden  stars  above; 
Dower'd  with  the  hate  of  hate,  the  scorn  of  scorn, 

The  love  of  love. 

The  poet  is  a  seer;  he  is  an  influence;  through  him 
truth  is  multiplied  on  truth  until  the  world  shows  like 
one  great  garden:  freedom  which  is  wisdom  arises 
and  shakes  the  world  with  the  poet's  scroll.  Few 
youthful  poets  have  had  a  more  beautiful  dream  of 


94     LIFE   OF  A  LITTLE   COLLEGE 

the  poet's  place  and  power.  The  golden  clime  he  is 
born  into  is  lighted  by  the  same  golden  stars  that 
shone  upon  Spenser's  realm  of  faerie.  To  every  aura 
of  beauty  he  is  tremblingly  alive.  The  alluring  mys 
teries,  the  puzzling  revelations  of  the  loveliness  of 
women,  the  form  and  colour  of  the  visible  world, 
dreams  and  flowers  and  the  morning  of  the  times  — 
of  these  he  is  the  youthful  interpreter.  His  earliest 
poems  dwell  apart 

In  regions  mild  of  calm  and  serene  air 
Above  the  smoke  and  stir  of  this  dim  spot 
That  men  call  Earth. 

It  seems  as  if  nothing  ever  could  perturb  that  ample, 
tranced,  pellucid  ether.  He  is  himself  an  unwitting 
prisoner  in  his  own  Palace  of  Art,  until  the  bolt  that 
struck  down  the  friend  at  his  side  shattered  also  the 
airy  dome  of  that  stately  fabric  and  left  him  desolate 
to  all  the  bleak  winds  of  the  world.  But  from  the 
very  dawn  of  consciousness  till  its  eclipse  in  death, 
he  followed  hard  after  the  Gleam. 

The  record  shows  him  to  have  been  an  artist  in  all 
parts  of  his  life.  He  thought  of  his  work  as  a  painter 
thinks  of  his,  considering  subjects,  studying  them, 
selecting  some,  rejecting  others,  making  large  plans, 
meditating  form,  outline,  disposition  of  masses,  de 
tail,  ornament,  finish.  He  harvested  his  thoughts, 
he  even  garnered  in  his  dreams.  He  made  his  plein 


TENNYSON   AS   ARTIST  95 

air  sketches  which  he  afterwards  worked  up  carefully 
in  the  studio.  He  was  not  perfect  at  first;  he  made 
errors,  but  he  persisted  and  he  attained  to  mastery. 
He  lived  for  and  in  his  art  and  at  last  his  art  enabled 
him  to  live.  He  had  the  artist's  patience;  he  was,  in 
his  own  phrase,  a  man  of  long-enduring  hopes.  He 
could  be  silent  for  ten  years,  the  ten  precious  years 
between  twenty  and  thirty  when  the  work  of  most 
poets  is  done  and  over.  He  could  build  slowly  through 
seventeen  years  the  lofty  rhyme  of  his  elegies  in  mem 
ory  of  his  friend  enskied  and  sainted;  and  he  could 
follow  out  the  plan  of  his  "Idylls"  for  forty.  His 
poetic  career  is  the  career  of  a  star,  unhasting  but 
unresting.  He  offers  for  our  acceptance  no  frag 
ments,  only  completed  things.  At  the  same  time,  he 
had  the  artist's  fury,  composing  "Enoch  Arden"  in  a 
fortnight,  or  "The  Revenge"  in  a  few  days,  after  keep 
ing  the  first  line  on  his  desk  for  years.  He  had  his 
frequent  hours  of  inspiration  when  he  waited  mys 
tically  for  things  to  "come"  to  him.  "Crossing  the 
Bar"  "came"  thus.  Another  mark  of  the  true  artist 
was  his  insatiable  hunger  and  thirst  after  perfection. 
Deep  down  in  his  nature  burned  an  unquenchable 
contempt  for  weaklings  who  set  the  "how  much  before 
the  how."  In  his  ears  sullen  Lethe  sounded  perpetu 
ally,  rolling  doom  on  man  and  on  all  the  work  of  his 
hands.  His  inmost  conviction  was  that  nothing  could 


96     LIFE  OF  A  LITTLE   COLLEGE 

endure,  and  yet,  in  his  humility,  he  held  nothing  fit 
for  the  inevitable  sacrifice  but  his  very  best. 


Ill 

How  did  Tennyson  become  an  artist?  Taught  by 
Taine,  we  are  now  no  longer  content  merely  to  accept 
the  fact  of  genius,  we  must  account  for  it;  at  least 
we  must  try  to  solve  the  problem.  We  feel  that  it  is 
laid  upon  us  to  explain  this  revelation  of  the  spirit 
that  is  in  man.  All  methods  must  be  used  to  discover 
the  x,  the  unknown  quantity.  The  favourite  form  of 
the  equation  is :  — 

original  endowment  +  race  +  environment  =x. 

In  a  Byron,  the  problem  is  simplicity  itself.  His 
father  is  a  handsome  rake,  his  mother  is  a  fool,  a 
fury,  an  aristocratic  sympathizer  with  the  Revolution; 
his  nurse  is  a  Scottish  Presbyterian;  he  is  brought  up 
amid  Highland  scenery.  Hence  it  follows  that  George 
Gordon  will  be  a  libertine,  a  poet  of  libertinism  and 
liberty,  a  singer  of  revolt  and  protest,  a  lover  of  moun 
tains,  a  timid  sceptic.  In  a  Ruskin,  the  problem  pre 
sents  few  difficulties.  His  father  is  "an  entirely  honest 
merchant"  who  is  able  to  take  his  young  son  to  see 
all  the  best  pictures  and  all  the  best  scenery  in  Europe. 
His  mother  educates .:  him  in  the  noble  English  of 
ICing  James's  Bible.  His  childish  delight  is  in  study- 


TENNYSON   AS   ARTIST  97 

ing  the  pattern  of  the  dining-room  carpet.  Inevitably 
John  Ruskin  will  grow  into  a  supreme  art  critic,  with 
a  style  of  unrivalled  pliancy  and  beauty.  But  with 
Tennyson  the  method  of  Taine  breaks  down.  There 
seems  to  be  nothing  in  his  early  life  or  training  to  make 
him  a  poet.  True,  his  brothers  and  sisters  were  "a 
little  clan  of  poets,"  and  he  himself  lisped  in  numbers. 
But  he  lived  until  manhood  nearly  in  a  tiny  retired 
hamlet,  a  perfect  Robinson  Crusoe's  Island  for  seclu 
sion,  in  a  flat,  uninteresting  part  of  England,  without 
the  mental  stimulus  of  travel  or  contact  with  the 
world.  Arthur  Hallam,  the  brilliant  Etonian,  spend 
ing  his  holidays  on  the  Continent,  meeting  the  most 
distinguished  men  and  women  of  the  time,  in  his  own 
father's  house  is  plainly  in  process  of  becoming  a  man 
of  letters,  while  his  predestined  friend,  reading,  dream 
ing,  making  verses  in  the  quiet  of  Somersby  rectory, 
enjoys  none  of  these  advantages.  "The  wind  bloweth 
where  it  listeth  and  thou  hearest  the  sound  thereof 
but  canst  not  tell  whither  it  cometh." 

Still  the  boy  Tennyson  composed  unweariedly  in 
verse.  At  eighteen,  he  published  with  his  brother  a 
volume  of  juvenilia,  which  are  plainly  imitative  and 
derivative.  It  fell  dead  from  the  press.  At  twenty- 
one,  he  published  a  volume  of  poems,  which  dates 
the  beginning  of  a  new  chapter  in  the  long,  majestic 
chronicle  of  English  literature.  What  made  the  dif- 


9  8     LIFE   OF   A   LITTLE    COLLEGE 

ference?  What  changed  the  literary  mocking-bird  into 
the  new  poet?  My  answer  is,  Cambridge.  The  most 
momentous  act  in  Tennyson's  whole  life  was  going 
up  to  the  university  in  1828.  No  later  experience, 
not  grief  for  Hallam's  death,  not  the  discipline  of  his 
ten  silent  years,  not  the  reward  of  wedded  life  after 
long  waiting,  not  the  laureateship  and  his  many 
other  honours,  not  the  birth  and  death  of  his  sons 
could  mould  his  life  and  genius,  as  did  that  scant 
three  years'  residence  at  Cambridge.  But  for  Cam 
bridge  and  Trinity  College,  he  could  never  have  made 
his  lifelong  friends,  Hallam,  Spedding,  Brookfield,  the 
"Apostles";  and  Tennyson's  friendships  had  no  small 
or  trivial  influence  on  his  life.  At  that  time,  he  was 
not  conscious  of  his  debt,  and  wrote  a  sonnet  proph 
esying  dire  things  for  his  university  when  the  daybeam 
should  sport  o'er  Albion,  because  "you"  (the  authori 
ties) 

teach  us  nothing,  feeding  not  the  heart. 

This  is  as  it  should  be.  Youthful  genius  should 
disparage  university  systems;  they  are  calculated  for 
the  average,  not  for  the  exceptional,  academic  person. 
But  Tennyson  could  not  escape  the  influence  of  Cam 
bridge  ;  it  was  much  greater  than  he  knew.  Cambridge 
colours  much  of  his  poetry;  for  example,  the  architec 
ture  in  "The  Princess"  and  "The  Palace  of  Art"  is 
the  English  collegiate  order  glorified.  He  has  left  us 


TENNYSON   AS   ARTIST  99 

no  second  "Prelude,"  or  growth  of  a  poet's  mind,  to 
guide  investigation.  "The  Memoir"  itself  does  not 
convey  as  much  information  as  can  be  gathered  from 
the  poet's  own  hints  and  reminiscences  in  "In  Memo- 
rium."  The  intercourse  with  equal  minds  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life,  during  his  most  plastic  years,  counted 
for  most;  but  even  the  despised  university  system  it 
self  was  not  without  its  formative  power.  The  Cam 
bridge  undergraduate  who  had  written  "Poems  chiefly 
Lyrical"  by  twenty-one,  was  very  different  from  the 
boy  of  eighteen  who  collaborated  in  "Poems  by  Two 
Brothers."  Cambridge  and  Cambridge  men  made  the 
difference,  or  nothing  did.  His  college  days  were  the 
budding-time  of  Tennyson's  genius. 

As  Birrell  has  pointed  out  with  so  much  humour, 
Cambridge  and  not  Oxford  is  the  mother  of  most 
English  poets,  who  are  also  university  men.  The 
University  of  Spenser,  Milton,  Dryden,  Wordsworth, 
Coleridge,  Byron  was  also  Tennyson's.  He  is  in  the 
direct  line  of  a  great  tradition.  When  he  came  up,  he 
seems  to  have  become  at  once  a  member  of  a  brilliant 
group  of  young  men,  by  some  sort  of  undisputed  right, 
and  the  most  brilliant  member  of  that  group  became 
his  most  intimate  friend.  Since  the  days  of  David 
and  Jonathan,  no  friendship  has  been  more  deep  and 
tender,  or  embalmed  in  nobler  poetry.  The  two 
were  in  physique  a  complete  contrast,  the  contrast  of 


ioo    LIFE  OF  A  LITTLE   COLLEGE 

the  oak  and  the  birch  tree.  Both  were  six  feet  in 
height,  but  Tennyson  was  massive  in  build,  broad- 
shouldered  and  notably  strong-looking,  while  Hallam 
was  slight  and  gracefully  slim.  Tennyson  was  dark 
brown  in  hair,  eyes,  and  complexion,  "  Indian-look 
ing,"  "like  an  Italian/'  as  he  has  been  described. 
Hallam  was  the  familiar  blond  Saxon  type,  with  fair 
hair,  blue  eyes,  and  regular  features.  Both  had  the 
distinction  of  great  personal  beauty.  Lawrence's  por 
trait  shows  the  poet  in  his  youth  looking  as  a  young 
poet  should  look,  "a  sort  of  Hyperion,"  FitzGerald 
called  him;  and  Chan  trey's  bust  of  Hallam  portrays 
the  finest  type  of  English  gentleman.  Two  more 
noticeable  youths  never  wore  cap  and  gown  in  Cam 
bridge,  or  paced  together  "that  long  walk  of  limes." 
Their  unlikeness  in  manner  and  mental  gifts  was 
equally  marked.  Tennyson  was  the  country  boy, 
shy,  reserved,  a  trifle  awkward,  Hallam  was  already 
the  easy,  polished  man  of  the  world.  Tennyson  was 
silent,  a  quiet  figure  in  a  corner  of  a  noisy  room: 
Hallam  was  fluent,  and  shone  in  conversation  and 
discussion.  Tennyson's  was  the  slower,  stronger, 
deeper  nature;  Hallam's  the  more  brilliant  and  at 
tractive  personality.  Tennyson  was  more  of  the  art 
ist;  Hallam  was  more  of  the  philosopher.  Hallam 
was  the  acknowledged  leader,  the  young  man,  who, 
every  one  was  certain,  would  go  far.  Tennyson  was 


TENNYSON   AS   ARTIST-         10*, 

the  poet,  admired  and  honoured  greatly  by  those  for 
tunate  undergraduates  who  first  listened  to  the  bard 
chant  his  own  poems  "Oriana"  or  "The  Hesperides," 
mouthing  his  hollow  0s  and  as.  Their  friendship  was 
the  attraction  of  opposites,  mutual,  intimate,  un 
troubled.  The  seal  was  set  upon  the  bond  by  Hal- 
lam's  betrothal  to  the  sister  of  his  friend. 

It  seems  probable  that  Hallam  did  for  Tennyson  at 
Cambridge  what  Coleridge  did  for  Wordsworth  at 
Nether  Stowey.  The  keen  intellectual  interests  stir 
ring  in  that  remarkable  little  coterie  must  in  them 
selves  have  worked  powerfully  upon  his  mind  and 
formed  a  congenial  atmosphere  in  which  his  genius 
might  blossom.  But  Hallam's  affection,  sympathy, 
admiration  seem  to  have  done  even  more  for  him; 
and  his  acute,  alert,  philosophic  intelligence  in  free 
interplay  with  Tennyson's  more  vague  and  dreamy 
thought  seems  to  have  released  and  stimulated  the 
powers  of  the  poet's  mind.  No  record  remains  of 
the  discussions  of  the  "youthful  band"  so  lovingly 
sketched  in  "In  Memoriam."  In  his  friendship  with 
Hallam  seems  to  lie  the  secret  of  Tennyson's  rapid 
early  development. 

Cambridge  completed  the  education  which  had  been 
carried  on  at  home  under  his  father's  direction,  a 
singularly  old-fashioned  scholarly  training,  classical 
in  a  narrow  sense.  Tennyson  was  not,  like  Shelley,  a 


102     LIFE  OF  A  LITTLE  COLLEGE 

rebel  against  routine;  nor,  like  Byron,  a  restless  seeker 
of  adventures;  nor,  like  Scott,  a  sportsman,  a  lover 
of  dogs  and  horses.  He  did  not,  like  Browning,  edu 
cate  himself.  Books  were  his  world.  His  love  for  the 
classics  was  deep  and  real,  as  his  exquisite  tribute 
to  Virgil  proves,  and  their  influence  is  unmistakable 
everywhere  throughout  his  work.  From  his  classical 
training  he  gained  his  unerring  sense  for  the  values 
of  words,  his  love  of  just  proportion,  his  literary 
"temperance,"  his  restraint  in  all  effects,  emotional 
and  picturesque.  " Nothing  too  much"  was  a  prin 
ciple  he  followed  throughout  his  poetic  career.  From 
classical  example  he  learned  the  labour  of  the  file,  a 
labour  he  never  stinted.  He  practised  the  Horatian 
maxim  about  suppressing  until  the  ninth  year.  He 
knew  well  how  to  prize  the  creation  that  comes  swift 
and  perfect  in  a  happy  hour;  he  knew  well  the  danger 
of  changing  and  altering  many  times,  — 

Till  all  be  ripe  and  rotten, 

but  he  had  a  great  patience  in  finish,  "the  damascen 
ing  on  the  blade  of  the  scimitar"  as  one  critic  calls 
it.  Finish,  rightly  understood,  is  but  an  untiring 
quest  of  truth.  The  pursuit  of  the  mot  juste,  the 
matching  of  the  colours  of  words,  the  exactness  in 
the  shading  of  phrases  are  no  more  than  stages  in  a 
process  of  setting  forth  the  poet's  conception  with 


TENNYSON   AS   ARTIST          103 

simple  truth.  To  rest  content  with  a  form  of  words 
which  merely  approximates  to  the  expression  of  the 
idea  is,  to  a  mind  of  Tennyson's  temper,  to  be  guilty 
of  falsity. 

In  his  choice  of  themes,  as  well  as  in  his  manner, 
Tennyson's  love  of  the  classics  is  made  manifest.  He 
prefers  romantic  themes,  notably  the  Arthurian  sagas, 
but  his  devotion  to  the  myths  of  Hellas  is  lifelong. 
"CEnone"  is  one  of  the  chief  beauties  of  the  volume 
of  1832.  "The  Death  of  CEnone,"  a  continuation 
of  the  same  tale,  gives  the  title  to  his  very  last.  It  is 
only  necessary  to  mention  " Ulysses,"  "Tithonus," 
"Lucretius,"  "Tiresias."  While  at  Cambridge,  he 
came  under  the  influence  of  Theocritus,  as  Stedman 
has  shown;  and  the  Sicilian  muse  inspired  his  "Eng 
lish  Idylls,"  the  poems  of  1842,  which  established 
his  rank  as  a  poet.  Tennyson's  classicism  is  very  dif 
ferent  from  the  classicism  of  Pope  on  the  one  hand, 
and  the  classicism  of  Keats,  Morris,  and  Swinburne 
on  the  other.  Pope  and  his  school  had  zeal  without 
knowledge;  they  had  the  misfortune  to  live  before 
Winckelmann.  Keats  by  instinct  and  sympathy, 
Morris  and  Swinburne  through  study  and  sympathy, 
attain  to  an  understanding  of  Hellenic  literature  and 
life.  Tennyson's  sympathy  is  founded  on  scholarship, 
but  he  is  not  content  merely  to  reproduce  Hellenic 
forms,  as  Swinburne  does  in  "Atalanta  in  Calydon," 


io4     LIFE   OF  A   LITTLE  COLLEGE 

or  merely  to  interpret  in  re-telling,  an  old-world 
wonder-tale,  as  Keats  does  in  "Hyperion,"  or  as 
Morris  does  in  "Atalanta's  Race."  His  practice  is 
to  take  the  mould  of  the  old  mythus  and  fill  it  with 
new  metal  of  his  own  fusing.  If  Keats  or  Swinburne 
had  written  "GEnone,"  they  would  have  given  more 
" Judgment  of  Paris"  pictures,  glowing  with  splendid 
colour.  Tennyson  does  not  deny  us  beauty,  or  har 
mony,  or  form,  or  vivid  hue,  but  his  "GEnone"  is  in 
its  last  significance  "a  criticism  of  life."  It  exists, 
one  might  almost  say,  for  the  sake  of  the  ideal  form 
ulated  by  Pallas  — 

Self-reverence,  self-knowledge,  self-control, 
These  three  alone  lead  life  to  sovereign  power. 

This  modernity  is,  I  believe,  the  distinctive  note  of 
all  his  classical  poetry. 

Cambridge  and  the  classics  seem  to  be  the  chief 
influences  in  developing  Tennyson's  genius,  in  bring 
ing  out  the  artist  that  was  in  him.  A  third  influence 
was  his  extraordinary  habit  of  self-criticism,  a  bent 
of  mind  rarely  found  united  with  the  artistic  temper 
ament.  The  personality  of  Tennyson  is  a  curious 
union  of  diverse  qualities.  A  mystic,  a  dreamer,  who 
could,  by  repeating  his  own  name  as  a  sort  of  incan 
tation,  put  himself  into  the  ecstatic  state,  he  had  a 
large  fund  of  English  common  sense,  driving  shrewd 
bargains  with  his  booksellers  and  thriftily  gaining 


TENNYSON   AS   ARTIST          105 

houses  and  lands.  He  was  both  a  critic  and  a  creator, 
and  his  critical  faculty,  strong  as  it  was,  never  over 
came  or  crippled  his  creative  power.  In  regard  to 
his  own  work,  he  was  both  markedly  sensitive  and 
preeminently  sane.  Black-blooded,  as  he  said  him 
self,  like  all  the  Tennysons,  he  never  forgot  or  for 
gave  an  adverse  criticism;  but  he  had  humour  and  a 
power  of  detachment.  He  was  too  wise  to  think  that 
he  could  ever  have  done  with  learning,  and  he  was 
willing  to  learn  even  from  unfriendly  critics.  When 
"Scorpion"  Lockhart  stung  him  to  the  quick  in  the 
" Quarterly,"  or  " musty  Christopher"  bludgeoned 
him  in  "Blackwood's,"  he  could  not  help  feeling 
hurt,  but  neither  could  he  help  seeing  whatever  jus 
tice  was  mingled  with  the  abuse.  In  subsequent 
editions,  he  suppressed  poems  that  they  hit  hardest, 
and  removed  or  modified  phrases  that  they  ridiculed. 
Among  poets,  Tennyson  stands  alone  in  this  peculiar 
deference  to  the  opinions  of  others,  and  this  habit 
of  profiting  by  criticism,  while  resenting  it.  Most 
poets  take  Pilate's  attitude,  "What  I  have  written, 
I  have  written." 

But  Tennyson  was  his  own  best  critic.  He  had 
keener  eyes  for  flaws  in  his  work  then  the  Lockharts 
and  the  Wilsons,  and  a  deeper  interest  in  removing 
them.  Unweariedly  he  labours  onwards  to  the  goal 
he  has  set  before  himself,  —  perfection.  He  sup- 


io6     LIFE   OF   A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

presses  whole  poems,  parts  of  poems,  or  lines,  or 
stanzas.  At  need  he  enlarges  a  poem.  Constantly  he 
modifies  words  and  phrases.  It  would  be  difficult  to 
point  to  a  single  poem  that  has  not  undergone  correc 
tion  since  its  first  publication.  The  " Memoir" 
showed  how  much  good  verse  he  never  published, 
consistently  with  his  praise  of  the  poet,  — 

The  worst  he  kept,  the  best  he  gave. 

And  Tennyson's  " worst"  is  enough  to  make  the  rep 
utation  of  a  respectable  minor  poet.  One  of  his  firm 
est  poetic  principles  was  a  horror  of  "long-backed" 
poems,  against  which  he  warned  his  friend  Browning 
in  vain.  With  Poe,  he  would  almost  consider  "long 
poem,"  a  contradiction  in  terms;  and  with  classic 
Gray,  he  is  capable  of  sacrificing  excellent  verses  for 
no  other  reason  than  that  they  would  draw  out  the 
linked  sweetness  beyond  appointed  bounds.  He  held 
that  a  small  vessel,  built  on  fine  lines,  is  likely  to 
float  farther  down  the  stream  of  time  than  a  big  raft. 
The  student  of  Tennyson's  art  will  be  rewarded  by 
comparing  the  volumes  of  1830  and  1832  with  the 
first  volume  of  1842.  The  first  two  were  carefully 
winnowed  for  the  best;  and  these  were  in  some  cases 
practically  rewritten  to  form  volume  one  of  "English 
Idylls."  The  second  contained  only  new  poems. 
These  poems  established  his  reputation;  and  Fitz- 


TENNYSON   AS   ARTIST          107 

Gerald  maintained  to  the  end,  that  they  were  never 
surpassed  by  any  later  masterpieces. 

From  the  opposite  practice  he  was  not  averse, 
when  it  was  necessary  in  the  interests  of  truth  and  of 
completeness.  "Maud,"  for  instance,  was  increased 
by  the  addition  of  two  poems,  sections  xix  and  xxv, 
or  one  hundred  and  twelve  lines  altogether.  The  gain 
in  clearness  is  most  marked.  Again,  the  amplifica 
tion  of  the  "Idylls  of  the  King,"  notably  of  "Geraint 
and  Enid"  into  two  parts,  and  of  the  original  "Morte 
d'Arthur"  into  "The  Passing  of  Arthur,"  to  form  a 
pendant  for  "The  Coming  of  Arthur"  rounds  out  the 
epic  and  assists  the  allegory. 

It  was  in  verbal  changes,  however,  that  his  critical 
faculty  was  chiefly  exerted.  As  a  boy,  Horace  was 
in  his  own  phrase  "thoroughly  drummed"  into  him, 
and,  though  he  did  not  attain  early  to  a  full  apprecia 
tion  of  the  Augustan's  peculiar  excellences,  such 
training  could  hardly  fail  to  react  upon  his  own  style, 
and  direct  his  attention  to  the  importance  of  nicety 
of  phrase  and  melody  of  verse.  In  "our  harsh,  grunt 
ing,  Northern  guttural,"  he  had  much  more  stubborn 
material  to  work  upon  than  the  sonorous  Latin;  but 
he  triumphed.  He  revealed  latent  beauties  in  our 
tongue,  unknown  and  unsuspected.  One  principle 
was  what  he  called  "kicking  the  geese  out  of  the  boat," 
getting  rid  of  the  sibilants.  He  would  ridicule  the 


io8     LIFE   OF  A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

first  line  of  "The  Rape  of  the  Lock"  for  its  cumulation 
of  hissing  sounds.  To  make  his  English  sweet  upon 
the  tongue  was  one  of  his  first  concerns.  He  succeeded, 
and  he  showed  our  language  to  be  a  richer,  sweeter 
instrument  of  expression,  with  greater  compass  than 
had  been  thought  possible  before  he  revealed  his 
mastery  over  it.  In  all  his  processes  of  correcting, 
polishing,  emending  expression,  his  one  aim  is  the  at 
tainment  of  greater  accuracy,  in  one  word,  truth.  A 
characteristic  anecdote  is  recorded  in  the  "Memoir." 
"My  father  was  vexed  that  he  had  written,  'two  and 
thirty  years  ago,'  in  his  '  All  along  the  Valley,'  instead 
of,  'one  and  thirty  years  ago,'  and  as  late  as  1892 
wished  to  alter  it  since  he  hated  inaccuracy.  I  per 
suaded  him  to  let  his  first  reading  stand,  for  the  public 
had  learnt  to  love  the  poem  in  its  present  form;  and 
besides  'two  and  thirty'  was  more  melodious."  Pol 
ish  for  the  sake  of  mere  smoothness  was  repellent  to 
his  large,  sincere  nature;  and  he  understood  the  art 
of  concealing  his  art.  Before  him,  only  Wordsworth 
had  treated  his  printed  works  in  so  rude  a  fashion; 
but  Wordsworth  changes  sometimes  for  the  worse. 
It  is  hardly  too  much  to  say  that  Tennyson's  changes 
are  invariably  improvements. 

It  seems  then  permissible  to  refer  the  peculiar 
development  of  Tennyson's  genius  to  three  causes; 
first,  his  education  in  the  classics  at  home,  at  college, 


TENNYSON   AS   ARTIST          109 

and  throughout  his  after  life  as  a  means  of  self- 
culture;  second,  the  strong  stimulus  to  mind  and  spirit 
afforded  by  the  life  and  the  companionships  of  the 
university;  and  third,  the  habit  of  self-criticism, 
which  made  the  poet  _  the  most  severe  judge  of  his 
own  work. 

IV 

The  popularity  of  an  author  is  of  course  no  criterion 
of  merit.  Matthew  Arnold  was  unpopular,  while 
forty  editions  of  Martin  Farquhar  Tupper  were 
eagerly  devoured  by  an  admiring  public.  Popularity 
may  be  the  stamp  of  inferiority.  Every  generation 
has  its  widely  read,  immortal  novelist,  who  is  speedily 
forgotten  by  the  next.  Mr.  Hall  Caine  and  Miss 
Marie  Corelli  command  audiences  to-day  which  are 
denied  to  Meredith  and  Hardy.  It  may  be  doubted 
whether  the  masterpieces  of  Hawthorne  ever  were 
able  to  compete  in  point  of  sales  with  the  novels  of 
"a  person  named  Roe."  Popularity  may  be  imme 
diate  and  well  deserved,  as  in  the  case  of  Scott, 
Byron,  and  Dickens,  because  there  is  in  them  an  ap 
peal  to  those  passions  that  are  universal  in  all  men; 
or  it  may  be  slow  and  gradual,  as  in  the  case  of  Words 
worth  and  Tennyson.  Few  will  quarrel  with  Ruskin's 
account  of  how  reputation  comes  to  all  that  is  highest 
in  art  and  literature.  "It  is  an  insult  to  what  is 


no    LIFE  OF  A  LITTLE  COLLEGE 

really  great  in  either  to  suppose  that  it  in  any  way 
addresses  itself  to  mean  or  uncultivated  faculties." 
The  question  what  is  really  high  in  art  is  not  decided 
by  the  multitude,  but  for  the  multitude,  —  "  decided 
at  first  by  a  few;  by  fewer  as  the  merits  of  a  work  are 
of  a  higher  order.  From  these  few  the  decision  is 
communicated  to  the  number  next  below  them  in 
rank  of  mind,  and  by  these  again  to  a  wider  and  lower 
circle;  each  rank  being  so  far  cognizant  of  the  superi 
ority  of  that  above  it,  as  to  receive  its  decision  with 
respect;  until,  in  process  of  time,  the  right  and  con 
sistent  opinion  is  communicated  to  all,  and  held  by 
all  as  a  matter  of  faith,  the  more  positively  in  pro 
portion  as  the  grounds  of  it  are  less  perceived."  This 
explanation  certainly  applies  to  Tennyson.  At  first 
he  was  discouraged  by  the  unsympathetic  reception 
of  his  works,  the  ridicule  of  the  "Quarterly"  and 
"Blackwood's"  and  "half  resolved  to  live  abroad  in 
Jersey,  in  the  South  of  France,  or  Italy.  He  was  so 
far  persuaded  that  the  English  people  would  never 
care  for  his  poetry,  that,  had  it  not  been  for  the  in 
tervention  of  his  friends,  he  declared  it  not  unlikely 
that,  after  the  death  of  Hallam,  he  would  not  have 
continued  to  write."  He  was,  however,  a  man  "of 
long  enduring  hopes;"  he  was  able  to  wait,  and  fame 
came  to  him  at  last. 
The  undoubted  fact  of  Tennyson's  long  continued 


TENNYSON   AS   ARTIST          in 

popularity  is  rather  strange.  There  are  reasons  why 
his  poetry  should  not  be  popular.  Scott  and  Byron 
were  popular  because  they  had  a  story  to  tell  and  told 
it  with  vigour  and  spirit:  but  Tennyson  has  little  or 
no  epic  interest,  especially  in  his  earliest  work:  the 
interest  is  lyric  and  therefore  less  wide  in  its  appeal. 
Again,  he  does  not  relate  himself  to  common  life  as 
Wordsworth  does;  nor  does  he,  like  Shelley,  espouse 
the  people's  cause.  His  attitude  is  that  of  the  intel 
lectual  aristocrat,  aloof,  fastidious,  dignified.  He  is 
essentially  a  local  and  an  English  poet.  Some  of  his 
most  thoroughly  characteristic  lines  are,  — 

The  noblest  men  methinks  are  bred 
Of  ours  the  Saxo-Norman  race. 

Germany,  Italy,  the  United  States  do  not  exist  in 
his  verse.  He  evinces  no  sympathy  with  the  great 
struggles  of  these  nationalities  toward  the  assertion 
of  their  natural  rights,  even  for  the  right  to  exist. 
The  Great  Republic  is  rent  asunder  by  four  years  of 
terrific  conflict,  and  Tennyson  has  no  word  of  cheer 
for  either  side.  But  democratic  America  welcomed 
and  read  his  poems  with  as  much  enthusiasm  as  his 
own  countrymen. 

Why,  in  spite  of  these  apparent  drawbacks,  Tenny 
son  was  and  has  remained,  and,  no  doubt,  will  long 
remain,  popular,  is  now  to  be  considered.  A  defini 
tion  of  poetry  that  finds  universal  acceptance  is  still 


ii2     LIFE   OF   A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

to  seek.  It  may  be  "a  criticism  of  life,"  or,  "the  sug 
gestion  by  the  imagination  of  noble  grounds  for  the 
noble  emotions,"  or  any  other  one  of  the  hundred 
that  the  wit  of  man  has  framed;  but,  whatever  it  in 
cludes  or  omits,  poetry  must  possess  two  things  — 
beauty  and  harmony.  Beauty  and  harmony,  har 
mony  and  beauty  —  these  are  the  two  principles 
without  which  poetry  cannot  exist;  these  are  the 
pillars  of  the  poets'  universe.  Poetry,  to  be  poetry, 
must  possess  harmony  and  beauty;  and  harmony  and 
beauty  inform  the  poetry  of  Tennyson  and  are  the 
law  of  its  being. 

Literature  and  poetry,  especially  lyric  poetry,  have 
the  most  ancient  associations  with  music;  and  the 
further  poetry  strays  from  music,  the  less  poetic  it 
becomes.  Many  poets  have  failed  or  come  short 
because  they  failed  to  understand  this  basal  princi 
ple,  or  else  deliberately  departed  from  it.  Words 
worth  was  in  feeling  a  rustic,  near  the  ground,  in 
close  touch  with  husbandman  and  shepherd,  but  his 
verse  is  repressed  and  austere  and  his  range  is  limited. 
He  is  not  read  by  workmen  as  Burns  is  read.  Carducci 
calls  himself  a  plebeian,  but  he  is  an  aristocrat  when 
he  writes  "Odi  Barbare,"  which  only  the  few  can 
understand  and  delight  in.  Whitman,  who  made 
democracy  a  religion,  and  proved  his  faith  by  his 
works  in  the  Washington  hospitals,  chanted  his  swing- 


TENNYSON   AS  ARTIST          113 

ing  paeans  of  democracy  for  the  benefit  of  a  group  of 
London  decadents  and  scanty  coteries  of  illuminati 
in  Boston  and  New  York.  They  failed,  but  Tennyson 
succeeded,  because,  following  the  bent  of  his  genius, 
he  set  himself  humbly  to  obey  eternal  and  unchanging 
law,  for  the  principle  of  beauty  inheres  as  firmly  in 
the  universe  as  the  law  of  gravitation.  Nobility  of 
thought,  beauty  of  vision,  harmony  of  word  and  phrase 
and  stanza,  just  proportion  in  the  whole,  —  at  these 
Tennyson  aims,  and  to  these  he  succeeds  in  attaining. 
His  first  appeal  is  to  the  ear;  his  verse  wins  its  way 
as  music  does,  the  most  democratic  of  all  the  fine  arts, 
and  the  most  masterful  in  its  power  to  stir  the  human 
heart.  The  poet's  limitations,  his  narrow  outlook, 
his  imperfect  sympathies  matter  not.  Music  speaks 
a  universal  language;  and  the  poetry  that  comes  near 
est  to  music  is  surest  to  reach  the  widest  audience. 
Ian  Maclaren's  story  of  the  Scottish  peasant  who  knew 
her  "In  Memoriam"  by  heart  is  no  mere  fancy.  No 
more  beautiful  illustration  of  the  power  of  literature 
to  soothe  and  cheer  is  to  be  found  anywhere  than  the 
anecdote  Mrs.  Gaskell  tells  in  the  first  volume  of  that 
treasure-house  of  noble  thoughts,  the  "Memoir." 
"Samuel  Bamford  is  a  great,  gaunt,  stalwart  Lan 
cashire  man,  formerly  hand-loom  weaver,  author  of 
'Life  of  a  Radical,'  age  nearly  seventy,  and  living 
in  that  state  that  is  exactly  decent  poverty  with  his 


u4  LIFE  OF  A  LITTLE  COLLEGE 

neat  little  apple-faced  wife.  They  have  lost  their  only 
child.  Bamford  is  the  most  hearty  (and  it 's  saying 
a  good  deal)  admirer  of  Tennyson  I  know.  You  know 
I  dislike  recitations  exceedingly,  but  he  repeats  some 
of  Tennyson's  poems  in  so  rapt  and  yet  so  simple  a 
manner,  utterly  forgetting  that  anyone  is  by,  in  the 
delight  of  the  music  and  the  exquisite  thoughts,  that 
one  can't  help  liking  to  hear  him.  He  does  not  care 
one  jot  whether  people  like  him  or  not  in  his  own  in 
tense  enjoyment.  He  says  when  he  lies  awake  at 
night,  as  in  his  old  age  he  often  does,  and  gets  sadly 
thinking  of  the  days  that  are  gone  when  his  child  was 
alive,  he  soothes  himself  by  repeating  Tennyson's 
poems."  It  would  seem  that  poetry  can  be  an  anodyne 
for  old  age,  sad  thoughts,  bereavement.  The  child 
less  father  soothes  himself  by  repeating  Tennyson's 
poems.  "He  does  not  care  whether  people  like  him 
or  not  in  his  own  intense  enjoyment."  Samuel  Bam 
ford,  old  hand-loom  weaver,  makes  Plato's  statement 
credible,  that  the  rhapsodists  reciting  Homer  fell 
down  fainting  in  their  ecstasies. 

Though  subject  to  certain  inevitable  fluctuations, 
Tennyson's  fame  was  great  and  constant.  He  re 
tained  the  praise  of  the  judicious,  while  he  won  the 
suffrages  of  the  multitude.  The  greatest  and  wisest 
and  best  of  two  generations  came  under  his  spell. 
Few  poets  have  been  more  heartily  acclaimed  by 


TENNYSON  AS  ARTIST         nj 

fellow  poets.  Browning's  dedication  of  his  own 
selected  poems  is  typical  of  the  general  esteem  — 

TO  ALFRED   TENNYSON, 

IN  POETRY,   ILLUSTRIOUS  AND  CONSUMMATE, 
IN  FRIENDSHIP,   NOBLE  AND   SINCERE. 

In  his  majestic  old  age,  he  became  an  object  of  ven 
eration,  Merlin  the  seer.  Tennyson  was  an  impe 
rialist,  that  is,  an  Englishman  impressed  with  the 
value  of  the  new  nations,  the  dominions  over  seas, 
and  the  necessity  of  keeping  the  empire  one.  In 
the  last  year  of  his  life,  he  came  into  touch  with  the 
imperialist  poet  of  the  new  school.  He  praised,  too, 
Mr.  Rudyard  Kipling's  " English  Flag,"  and  Kip 
ling's  answer  to  his  letter  of  commendation  gave 
him  pleasure:  "When  the  private  in  the  ranks  is 
praised  by  the  general,  he  cannot  presume  to  thank 
him,  but  he  fights  the  better  the  next  day."  A  list 
of  those  who  have  praised  his  work  would  include 
the  best  minds  on  both  sides  of  the  Atlantic.  Long 
fellow  spoke  for  America  in  the  Christmas  sonnet, 
which  he  wrote  and  sent  in  1877,  — 

in  sign 

Of  homage  to  the  mastery  which  is  thine 
In  English  song,  — 

But  Tennyson  impressed  the  English-speaking  world 
of  his  time  not  alone  directly  by  the  impact  of  his 


n6     LIFE   OF  A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

poetry  on  the  leaders  of  thought,  he  exerted  a  great 
secondary  influence  through  his  hosts  of  imitators. 
The  parallel  between  Tennyson  and  Pope  has  been 
sometimes  drawn,  and  not  unwisely.  Both  set  be 
fore  them  very  definite  ideals  of  technique.  Pope's 
was  "correctness;"  Tennyson's  was  brevity,  just 
proportion  and  finish.  Their  aims  have  very  much 
in  common.  Each  would  understand  the  other  when 
he  spoke 

Of  charm,  and  lucid  order  and  the  labour  of  the  file. 

Both  became  supreme  verbal  artists,  and  verbal 
artistry  is  no  slight  thing.  To  think  of  either  Pope 
or  Tennyson  merely  as  artificers  of  word  mosaics, 
as  cunning  jewellers  of  phrases  is  to  wrong  them. 
Their  search  for  the  exact  word  was  really  a  search 
for  the  idea.  Both  are  poets'  poets,  in  the  sense  that 
their  literary  influence  [is  supreme  in  their  centuries. 
Both  set  the  tune  for  their  age.  The  manner  of 
Pope  prevailed  in  the  eighteenth  century  and  the 
manner  of  Tennyson  prevailed  in  the  nineteenth. 
Arnold,  William  Morris,  Rossetti  would  have  written 
in  another  way  except  for  Tennyson.  Swinburne, 
the  greatest  of  them  all,  simply  carries  Tennyson's 
mastery  of  words  one  stage  further,  and  represents, 
perhaps,  the  utmost  possibilities  in  sweetening  the 
English  tongue.  The  recognition  of  Tennyson's 


TENNYSON   AS   ARTIST          117 

influence  upon  the  minor  verse  of  the  last  half  cen 
tury  has  long  been  a  commonplace  of  the  reviewer. 

It  was  by  no  condescension  to  the  taste  of  the 
groundlings,  that  Tennyson  won  his  popularity.  He 
takes  high  ground,  and  he  calls  us  up  to  it.  Al 
though  first  and  foremost  an  artist,  he  did  not  rest 
in  a  worship  of  beauty.  He  would  not  agree  with 
Keats  that  Beauty  is  Truth  and  Truth  is  Beauty, 
that  this  is  all  we  know  on  earth  and  all  we  need  to 
know.  He  left  the  maxim,  "Art  for  Art's  sake,"  to 
be  invented  by  his  followers.  He  knew,  even  as  a 
youth  at  college,  that  the  nature  of  man  cannot 
wholly  take  refuge  in  Art.  He  knew  that  other  things 
must  have  their  share.  His  own  avowed  theory  of 
his  art  is  that 

Beauty,  Good,  and  Knowledge  are  three  sisters 

That  dote  upon  each  other  — 

And  never  can  be  sunder'd  without  tears.  • 

Tennyson's  was  essentially  a  reverent,  a  religious 
nature.  His  tendency  to  brood  on  the  riddle  of  the 
painful  earth  is  seen  clearly  even  in  his  earliest 
poems,  and  is  thoroughly  in  accord  with  the  strong 
religious  fibre  of  the  English  people.  It  was  an  Eng 
lish  naturalist  who,  in  the  mid-nineteenth  century, 
turned  the  current  of  the  world's  thought.  Darwin 
and  his  theory  of  evolution  gave  a  new  impetus  and 
direction  to  the  conceptions  of  man,  life,  and  the 


ii8     LIFE   OF  A  LITTLE  COLLEGE 

universe.  One  immediate  result  was  the  shattering 
of  old  beliefs.  No  one  felt  the  conflict  between  the 
old  faith  and  the  new  knowledge  more  keenly  than 
Tennyson,  and  no  one  has  represented  that  conflict 
more  powerfully  than  he  has  in  "In  Memoriam." 
Though  often  cast  down  in  the  struggle,  faith  emerges 
victorious.  Along  with  Carlyle  and  Ruskin,  Tenny 
son  has  helped  to  shape  some  sort  of  via  media  be 
tween  science  and  religion.  Tennyson  is  akin  to 
the  young  Milton  who  sang  the  praise  of  purity  in 
"Comus,"  and  the  Spenser  who  intended  by  "The 
Fairy  Queen"  to  fashion  a  gentleman  or  noble  per 
son  in  virtuous  and  gentle  discipline. 

"And  your  experience  had  made  you  sad,"  Rosa 
lind  might  say  to  Tennyson  as  to  the  melancholy 
Jaques.  He  is  often  hastily  described  as  a  pessimist 
and  he  certainly  chose  a  mournful  muse.  His  great 
poem  is  an  elegy,  an  inscription  on  a  tomb,  a  reso 
lute  facing  of  the  great  issues  raised  by  the  death  of 
his  friend.  Without  being  morbid,  he  is  impressed 
with  the  tragedy  of  life  and  the  fact  of  death.  Even 
in  the  "Poems  by  Two  Brothers"  he  is  at  times 
sad  as  night.  "Oriana,"  "The  Lady  of  Shalott," 
"Maud,"  "Aylmer's  Field,"  "Enoch  Arden,"  "The 
Idylls  of  the  King,"  are  all  tragic.  Disappointed 
love  is  the  theme  of  "Locksley  Hall,"  the  two 
"Marianas,"  "Dora,"  "Love  and  Duty,"  to  men- 


TENNYSON   AS   ARTIST         119 

tion  only  a  few  of  his  earlier  poems.  The  beauty  of 
the  form  makes  us  forget  the  eternal  note  of  sadness 
in  them  all.  Tennyson's  sadness  is  the  melancholy 
of  the  North,  which  is  quite  compatible  with  a  gift 
of  humour.  His  humour  is  deep  and  rich,  if  rather 
quiet,  as  in  the  " Northern  Farmers,"  and  is  a  de 
velopment  of  later  life.  He  speaks  of  his  college 
days  as  those  "dawn  golden  times,"  and  his  first 
two  volumes  do  reflect  the  splendour  of  the  sunrise: 
but  though  afterwards  he  can  write  fanciful  medley 
like  "The  Princess,"  or  the  graceful  fairy-tale  like 
"The  Day-Dream,"  the  first  vision  has  passed  away 
for  ever.  To  realize  the  general  sadness,  of  tone  in 
Tennyson,  a  short  dip  into  Browning  is  necessary, 
some  brief  contact  with  his  spirits,  his  unbounded 
cheerfulness,  his  robust  assertion  that  God's  in  His 
Heaven. 

The  nineteenth  century  is  now  definitely  behind  us, 
a  closed  chapter  in  the  history  of  human  progress. 
It  is  too  soon  to  define  it,  as  we  can  define  the  eight 
eenth  century;  for  we  feel  ourselves  part  of  it  still. 
It  was  a  practical,  commercial,  industrial  age,  and 
yet  it  was  an  age  of  poets.  Never  before  did  poets 
wield  such  an  influence.  Scott,  Byron,  Wordsworth 
did  in  a  very  real  sense  sway  the  hearts  and  minds 
of  men.  Byron's  influence  in  particular  extended 
far  beyond  his  native  land;  his  poetry  was  a  genuine 


120     LIFE   OF   A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

call  to  freedom,  an  inspiration  to  noble  conspirators 
all  over  Europe;  and  its  power  is  by  no  means 
exhausted  yet.  The  influence  of  Tennyson  has  been 
more  restricted  to  that  great  section  of  the  human 
race  whose  mother- tongue  is  English.  For  two  gen 
erations  he  was  their  favourite  poet.  He  was  un 
doubtedly  the  poet  of  his  age,  and  the  fact  of  his  pop 
ularity  is  flattering  to  the  age.  Appreciation  means 
sympathy.  As  Tennyson  was  widely  read  and 
enthusiastically  admired  by  all  classes  of  minds  in 
his  time,  he  is  in  a  way  the  mirror  of  his  century. 
Hence  it  is  not  an  unfair  inference  that  very  many 
men  and  women,  his  contemporaries,  were  sensitive 
to  beauty  in  all  its  forms,  possessed  broad  culture 
and  thorough  refinement,  lived  on  the  moral  up 
lands,  and  envisaged  with  earnestness  the  tremen 
dous  riddles  of  human  life  and  destiny.  For  poetry 
is  not  an  amusement,  a  recreation.  It  is  truly  a 
"criticism  of  life."  We  turn  to  our  poets  instinc 
tively  for  guidance  in  matters  of  faith.  Not  in  vain 
do  we  come  to  Tennyson.  He  may  not  offer  a  very 
certain  hope,  but  he  does 

Teach  high  faith  and  honourable  words 
And  courtliness  and  the  desire  of  fame 
And  love  of  truth  — . 


BROWNING'S   WOMEN— THE 
SURFACE 


BROWNING'S  WOMEN  —  THE 
SURFACE 

THE  other  day,  some  one  praised  Hogarth  as  a 
portrayer  of  beautiful  women,  and  straight 
way  there  arose  a  protest.  To  the  protestants, 
Hogarth  meant  chiefly  "The  Rake's  Progress," 
"Gin  Lane,"  "The  Lessons  in  Cruelty";  and  they 
forgot  the  pretty  face  of  the  country  clergyman's 
daughter  in  the  other  "Progress,"  the  charm  of  her 
mischievous  smile,  and  her  sister,  the  actress  "Diana," 
anything  but  a  prudish  goddess,  in  the  barn  turned 
greenroom,  ringed  by  the  unappreciative  onlookers. 
Browning  is  not  exactly  Hogarth  in  verse,  but  he  is 
like  the  artist  in  one  respect,  that  the  popular  ver 
dict  puts  certain  qualities  of  both  in  the  forefront, 
to  the  dimming  of  others,  perhaps  of  equal  impor 
tance.  Browning,  when  not  set  down  as  flatly  in 
comprehensible,  is  a  metaphysician,  or  a  philosopher, 
or  an  artist  in  the  grotesque,  —  damning  phrases 
all.  He  'is  known  as  the  author  of  "Sordello,"  as 
the  tracker  of  men's  secret  souls  through  the  end 
less  mazes  of  personality,  as  the  interpreter  of  the 
ugliness  of  nature,  as  in  "Childe  Roland";  of  the 

123 


i24     LIFE  OF  A   LITTLE  COLLEGE 

ugliness  of  the  stunted  savage  mind,  as  in  "Caliban"; 
of  the  ugliness  of  moral  deformity,  as  in  "Sludge," 
"Guido,"  and  "Blougram."  But  could  he  image 
beauty?  Could  he  deal  with  the  poet's  chief  theme, 
the  crowning  splendour  of  this  world  of  flowers,  the 
loveliness  of  women?  Could  he,  from  the  scattered 
vexing  hints  the  real  supplies,  create  ideal  forms  that 
will  haunt  the  imagination  of  the  world  with  their 
supernal,  maddening,  unattainable  charm?  Let  me 
answer  my  own  questions.  I  believe  that  no  poet 
has  ever  portrayed  the  eternal  woman  in  the  in 
tensity  and  variety  of  her  great  gift,  beauty,  as  well 
as  Robert  Browning. 

No  one  doubts  that  Browning  could  depict  the 
essential  woman,  —  the  soul  of  her.  Sometimes, 
in  this  task  he  seems  to  despise  all  external  aids. 
The  unnamed  Brinvilliers  of  "The  Laboratory"  is 
a  little  woman,  a  "minion,"  in  contrast  with  the 
great  regal  creature  she  hates  to  the  death;  that 
glorious  peasant  girl  who  rescued  the  revolutionist 
from  the  dry  old  aqueduct  is  barefoot;  Count  Gis- 
mond's  wife  is  "beauteous,"  as  befits  the  queen  of 
the  tourney;  but  description  could  not  well  be 
vaguer.  With  hardly  a  word  as  to  their  outward 
favour,  the  poet  sets  these  women  before  us,  pal 
pitating  with  life  in  every  fibre  of  their  being.  In 
six  lines  of  "De  Gustibus,"  he  will  give  you  a  com- 


BROWNING'S   WOMEN  125 

plete  character,  the  barefoot  Neapolitan  girl  with 
her  armful  of  fruit,  her  hatred  of  the  Bourbon  despot, 
and  patriotic  love  for  the  wouldbe  assassin.  The 
fierce  young  thing  is  there  in  those  six  lines,  soul 
and  body.  You  seem  to  see  her  black  eyes  flash, 
when  "she  hopes  they  have  not  caught  the  felons." 
With  more  elaborated,  full-length  portraits  of  char 
acter,  Pippa,  Balaustion,  and  that  "miracle  of 
women,"  Pompilia,  we  are  so  lost  in  admiration 
of  their  innocent  girlishness,  or  patriotic  fervour,  or 
divine  purity  of  soul,  that  we  hardly  think  of  em 
bodying  such  quintessence  of  spirit  in  any  human 
form.  But  Browning  did  not  despise  form,  any  more 
than  Fra  Lippo  Lippi,  whose  sentiment  is  the  poet's 

own,  — 

If  you  get  simple  beauty  and  nought  else, 
You  get  about  the  best  thing  God  invents. 

Tennyson  is  famous  for  his  dream  of  fair  women, 
"the  far-renowned  brides  of  ancient  song."  His 
case  is  typical.  Every  poet,  to  be  a  poet,  must  have 
the  same  vision.  Browning,  too,  has  his  dream, 
but  it  is  grander,  far  more  comprehensive  than  that 
of  his  brother  Olympian.  Before  his  eyes  come  not 
only  the  queens  of  the  race,  Helen,  Cleopatra,  Joan 
the  Maid,  but  all  beautiful  women,  past,  present, 
and  to  be.  In  numbers  past  all  counting,  like  the 
doves  to  their  windows,  like  the  multitudes  of  souls 


126     LIFE   OF  A  LITTLE   COLLEGE 

driven  by  the  fierce  wind  in  the  great  outer  circle  of 
Hell,  Browning  sees  the  loveliest  of  all  time  circling 
the  mystic  rose-tree,  the  rose  that  has  ever  been  the 
symbol  of  festival,  of  joy,  of  love. 

I  dream  of  a  red-rose  tree, 

Round  and  round,  like  a  dance  of  snow 
In  a  dazzling  drift,  as  its  guardians,  go 
Floating  the  women  faded  for  ages, 
Sculptured  in  stone,  on  the  poet's  pages. 
Then  follow  women  fresh  and  gay, 
Living  and  loving  and  loved  to-day. 
Last,  in  the  rear,  flee  the  multitude  of  maidens 
Beauties  yet  unborn.    And  all  to  one  cadence 
They  circle  their  rose  on  my  rose-tree. 

Spenser  saw  his  lady  in  a  mood  of  spring,  crowned 
and  throned,  and  all  about  her,  — 

An  hundred  naked  maidens  lily  white, 

All  raunged  in  a  ring  and  dauncing  with  delight. 

But  the  dance  Browning  saw  has  not  even  the  airy 
footing  to  be  found  in  Fairy  Land;  it  is  out  of  Space 
and  out  of  Time.  Some  one  gave  his  wife,  when 
they  were  first  married,  a  handful  of  roses,  in  Florence. 
The  petals  are  dead  and  dry  long  since,  but  the  or 
dered  words  they  inspired  remain,  fragrant  and  full 
of  colour.  Nothing  could  be  more  fitting  than  the 
transmutation  of  flowers  into  verse.  From  the  end- 


BROWNING'S   WOMEN          127 

less  procession  they  conjured  up,  the  poet  by  his  art 
has  called  out  this  one  and  that,  and  made  it  pos 
sible  for  us  to  see  her  too. 

If  he  was  not  merely  repeating  a  commonplace, 
the  apostle  was,  for  the  moment,  a  poet  and  a  man 
of  the  world,  when  he  wrote  that  a  woman's  glory 
is  her  hair.  It  is  undoubtedly  the  frame  of  all  the 
other  glories,  their  indispensable  background;  and 
this  crowning  mercy  to  mankind  seems  to  have  en 
chained  Browning's  gaze  most  closely.  In  one  case, 
at  least,  it  is  the  woman's  only  beauty;  it  was  all  the 
dower  Mother  Nature  gave  the  frail,  white-faced 
girl  of  Pornic,  with  her  strange,  sordid,  miser  pas 
sion.  In  its  rich  abundance,  silky  texture,  and  play 
of  golden  light,  there  was  promise  of  soul  and  face 
and  body  in  keeping;  but  the  promise  was  broken 
in  the  tenuous  frame  and  the  crippled  spirit. 

But  she  had  her  great  gold  hair 

Hair,  such  a  wonder  of  flix  and  floss, 

Freshness  and  fragrance  —  floods  of  it  too ! 

Gold,  did  I  say?     Nay,  gold's  mere  dross; 
Here  Life  smiled,  "  Think  what  I  meant  to  do." 

And  love  sighed,  "Fancy  my  loss!" 

In  death,  her  hair  is  almost  sufficient  shroud. 

For  indeed  the  hair  was  to  wonder  at, 
As  it  spread  —  not  flowing  free, 


128     LIFE   OF   A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

But  curled  around  her  brow,  like  a  crown, 
And  coiled  beside  her  cheeks  like  a  cap, 

And  calmed  about  her  neck  —  ay,  down 
To  her  breast,  pressed  flat,  without  a  gap 

I*  the  gold,  it  reached  her  gown. 


Mildred  Tresham  is  another  golden-haired  beauty, 
but  as  full  of  warm  young  life,  as  the  Pornic  miser 
was  devoid  of  it.  Of  the  age  of  Juliet,  and  Miranda, 
and  Perdita,  she  deserves  admittance  to  the  fellow 
ship  of  these  three  Graces,  by  virtue  of  her  physical 
beauty.  To  her,  as  to  nearly  all  Browning's  women, 
might  be  affixed  the  old  ballad  tag,  "ladye  bright." 
"Oh,  she  doth  teach  the  torches  to  burn  bright," 
bursts  forth  Romeo,  at  the  first  glimpse  of  the  peer 
less  Juliet,  that  "Beauty  for  earth  too  rich,  for  use 
too  dear."  With  this  radiant  loveliness,  dazzling, 
eye-striking,  Mildred  Tresham  is  endowed;  for  there 
is  sometimes  seen  a  kind  of  face  that  no  more  permits 
a  steady  gaze  upon  it  than  does  the  sun.  Hers  is  a 
wealth  of  charms.  "How  little  God  forgot  in  making 
her!"  as  the  admiring  German  verse  has  it.  She  is  a 
child  in  years,  the  budding  rose,  and  not  the  rose 
full-blown,  and  not  yet  dimmed  by  the  dust  of  the 
world.  Faithful  heart  and  wonderful  blue  eyes, 
which  the  proverb  couples  not  unwisely,  and  hair  to 
net  the  coldest  lover's  fancy,  —  these  the  poet  cele 
brates  in  the  famous  serenade. 


BROWNING'S   WOMEN  129 

And  her  eyes  are  dark  and  humid,  like"  the  depth  on  depth  of 
lustre 

Hid  i'  the  harebell,  while  her  tresses,  sunnier  than  the  wild- 
grape  cluster, 

Gush  in  golden-tinted  plenty  down  her  neck's  rose-misted 
marble. 

The  Lady  of  the  Gondola,  another  of  "Cupid's 
saints,"  has  also  golden  hair.  When  her  lover  saw 
her  first,  leaning  out  over  the  balcony  of  her  palace, 
to  catch  her  truant  bird,  — 

the  round  smooth  cord  of  gold, 
This  coiled  hair  on  your  head,  unrolled. 
Fell  down  you  like  a  gorgeous  snake 
The  Roman  girls  were  wont,  of  old, 
When  Rome  there  was,  for  coolness'  sake 
To  let  lie  curling  o'er  their  bosoms. 

The  " Incident"  has  meaning  that  does  not  lie  on 
the  surface;  for  the  solution  of  the  hair  from  its  de 
corum  is  always  a  subtle  symbol  of  self-surrender. 
This  is  the  same  hair  from  which  the  lady  flung  away 
the  jewel,  and  bound  it  with  a  water  weed,  since  her 
lover  praised  it;  the  same  " beauteous"  hair  he 
praised  again  in  his  death  agony  and  feared  his 
blood  would  hurt. 

In  this  lovely  company  is  also  Porphyria,  the  high 
born  dame,  who  was  so  long  doubtful  of  her  own 
heart,  and  at  last  gave  all  for  love,  and  put  herself 
too  trustingly  within  her  lover's  power.  She  came 


130     LIFE   OF  A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

to  him  through  the  night  and  the  rain,  and  her  re 
ward  was  death.  The  madman  strangled  her  in  his 
ecstasy  of  possession;  but  her  beauty  was  not  marred; 
even  then  the  laughing  blue  eye  was  free  from  all 
blemish,  and  the  long  yellow  hair  made  a  gorgeous 
coil  three  times  around  the  bare  little  neck. 

As  intense  and  clear-shining,  in  her  dark  way,  as 
these  glowing  sun-coloured  women  in  theirs,  is  the 
Riccardi's  bride,  the  new-made  wife  who  loved  the 
duke,  but  wanted  will  to  sin  the  whole  sin  out.  The 
contrast  between  her  black  hair  and  pale  face  etches 
her  upon  the  memory.  Black-haired  and  pale- 
faced,  —  but  that  is  saying  nothing.  Browning 
deepens  his  shadows  and  heightens  his  lights,  until 
it  would,  indeed,  be  a  dull  mind  that  took  no  impress 
from  the  image  presented.  The  black  hair  has  a 
vitality  of  its  own,  rolling  heavily  in  the  fulness  of 
its  strength,  like  a  charger's  mane.  The  massive 
waves  of  it  are  like  carven  coal  against  the  spiritual 
purity  of  her  white  brow.  But  black  as  her  locks 
are,  they  cannot  vie  with  the  black  fire  of  her  un 
fathomable  eyes. 

Hair  in  heaps  lay  heavily 

Over  a  pale  brow  spirit  —  pure  — 

Carved  like  the  heart  of  a  coal-black  tree, 

Crisped  like  a  war  steed's  encolure  — 
And  vainly  sought  to  dissemble  her  eyes 
Of  the  blackest  black  our  eyes  endure. 


BROWNING'S   WOMEN  131 

Browning  seems  to  share  the  general  preference  for 
fair  hair.  The  lover  who  is  travelling  to  meet  his 
lady  and  will  see  her  again,  "In  Three  Days"  revels 
in  thought  with  her  wonderful  curls.  He  seems  to 
leave  the  colour  undecided,  but  still  the  line  "As 
early  Art  embrowns  the  gold"  could  hardly  apply 
to  dark  hair!  Pompilia  we  remember  best  by  the 
phrase,  "A  lady  young,  tall,  beautiful,  and  sad"; 
but  her  champion,  who  speaks  for  half  Rome,  lets  us 
know  how  Cavalier  Carlo  Maratta  the  painter  raved 
about  her  face,  "shaped  like  a  peacock's  egg"  and 

that  pair  of  eyes,  that  pendent  hair 
Black  this  and  black  the  other. 

Failing  Signer  Carlo's  sketch,  I  should  like  to  give 
Pompilia  the  lovely  features  of  that  other  humble 
Italian  girl,  saint  and  martyr,  Ida,  as  immortalized 
by  "  Francesca's "  pen  and  pencil.  After  all,  there  is 
not  so  much  to  be  said  about  black  hair.  Black  is 
black,  but  there  are  many  shades  of  gold.  For  in 
stance,  that  soulless  "Pretty  Woman,"  "all  the  face 
composed  of  flowers,"  has  hair  unique  in  its  beauty. 
Here  is  the  inventory  of  her  charms:  — 

That  fawn-skin  dappled  hair  of  hers, 

And  the  blue  eye, 

Dear  and  dewy, 
And  that  infantine  fresh  air  of  hers! 

The  dangerous,  grown-up  baby! 


i3 2     LIFE   OF   A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

It  must  not  be  forgotten  that  Browning  was  an 
artist,  with  the  artist's  sensitiveness  to  all  manifesta 
tions  of  beauty.  He  understands  the  maxim,  "peu 
de  moyens,  beaucoup  d'effet."  The  girl  waiting  for 
her  shepherd  at  twilight  in  the  ruined  tower,  where 
once  the  great  mother-city  stood,  has  "  eager  eyes  and 
yellow  hair."  Colombe  is  a  princess  regnant,  less  by 
birth  than  by  her  soul;  she  is,  besides,  "a  young  maid 
with  the  bluest  eyes."  Before  she  enters  the  audience- 
chamber  on  her  fateful  birthday,  she  is  "wreathing 
her  hair,  a  song  between  her  lips,"  in  happy  inno 
cence  of  the  sorrow  and  joy  awaiting  her  beyond  the 
portal.  The  mistress  of  the  Bishop  is,  to  the  dying 
sinner,  "your  tall  pale  mother  with  her  talking  eyes." 
Gandolf  and  he  had  contended  for  her,  as  well  as  for 
the  choicest  tombs  in  St.  Praxed's  church.  "And 
still  he  envied  me,  so  fair  was  she."  The  poet  seems 
to  convey  that  she  was  no  wanton  like  Ottima;  she 
was  the  mother  of  sons,  and  her  "talking  eyes"  told 
tales  of  sorrow.  In  all  three  cases  how  few  are  the 
words  that  body  forth  these  fair  women! 

Besides  all  these  free,  dashing  sketches,  he  has  his 
finished  portraits  at  full  length. 

The  Venetian  lady  of  the  "Toccata"  is  one  of 
Titian's  own.  She  and  her  cavalier  have  stepped 
apart  from  the  dancers;  they  have  even  left  off  their 
lover's  talk  to  listen  to  Ser  Baldassare  Galuppi's 


BROWNING'S   WOMEN  133 

music  as  he  plays  his  "  touch-pieces "  at  the  clavi 
chord.  The  gallant  is  trifling  with  his  sword-hilt;  the 
lady  is  in  a  reverie;  she  has  taken  off  her  black- velvet 
mask  and  set  her  teeth  lightly  in  the  edge  of  it.  The 
master's  music  has,  for  a  wonder,  made  her  think. 
We  see  the  pair  together,  the  fixed  eyes  of  both  are 
full  of  new  thoughts.  Such  a  lady! 

cheeks  so  round,  and  lips  so  red,  — 
On  her  neck  the  small  face  buoyant,  like  the  bell-flower  on  its 

bed, 
O'er  the  breast's  superb  abundance,  where  a  man  might  base 

his  head. 

The  young  Duchess  of  Ferrara  is  also  a  full-length 
portrait.  The  sketch  in  oils  Fra  Pandolf  painted 
swiftly  in  a  day  is  one  of  the  ducal  connoisseur's  chief 
rarities.  It  must  have  been  the  painter's  masterpiece, 
for  the  lady  looks  as  if  she  were  alive,  and  the  well- 
remembered  spot  of  joy  is  in  the  fresh  young  cheek. 
The  duke  with  his  cold  cruelty  murdered  the  living 
woman,  but  he  treasured  the  painted  image  of  her. 
There  is  the  rounded  arm  the  painter  complimented, 
and  the  faint  flush  of  colour  along  her  throat  that  was 
his  despair.  He  triumphed  over  a  greater  difficulty, 
however;  he  transferred  to  canvas  "the  depth  and 
passion  of  that  earnest  glance.'7  The  question,  "Dark 
or  fair?  "  is  not  answered,  but  the  details  given  define 
an  individual  not  to  be  confused  with  any  other  of 


134    LIFE   OF   A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

Browning's  creations.  More  distinctly  marked  still 
are  the  features  of  the  one  in  "Time's  Revenges." 
At  least  they  seem  so,  until  we  find  only  one  peculiar 
ity  spoken  of.  Nothing  is  told  of  her  eyes  or  her  hair, 
only  how  the  shadows  shift  and  change  about  her 
lips.  For  the  poet-lover  this  is  an  obsession.  Why  is 
this  individual  trait  put  in  the  forefront  of  the  de 
scription?  For  the  best  of  reasons.  The  sweetest 
kisses,  sings  the  longing  girl  to  Princess  Ida,  are 
feigned  by  hopeless  fancy  on  lips  that  are  for  others. 
This  is  the  sorrow  of  our  poet  in  his  freezing  garret. 
The  Face  haunts  him,  grows  out  upon  him  from  the 
bare  walls  wherever  he  looks. 

So  is  my  spirit,  as  flesh  with  sin, 
Filled  full,  eaten  out  and  in 
With  the  face  of  her,  the  eyes  of  her, 
The  lips,  the  little  chin,  the  stir 
Of  shadow  round  her  mouth  — 

One  fancies  her  a  Titania,  like  the  Duchess  who  fled 
with  the  gipsy. 

I  have  seen  a  white  crane  bigger. 

She  cannot  choose  but  be  little.  The  little  women  are 
the  empresses  of  the  world  and  trample  on  the  hearts 
of  men.  She  was  no  doubt  a  " minion"  like  the  court 
lady  in  "The  Laboratory,"  fond  of  dancing  like  her 
also,  and  dancing  well.  No  doubt  she  went  to  the 


BROWNING'S   WOMEN  135 

famous  ball,  and  danced  like  a  feather  in  the  wind, 
while  her  lover  ate  out  his  heart  in  his  lonely  attic. 
Lucrezia,  the  "  serpentining  beauty,  rounds  on 
rounds,"  the  wife  of  Andrea  del  Sarto,  is  fully  de 
scribed,  but  Browning  has  many  portraits  to  study. 
The  face  of  Edith,  the  lost  love  in  "Too  Late,"  is  so 
unusual  that  it  seems  to  be  drawn  direct  from  the 
living  model:  — 

I  liked  the  way  you  had  with  your  curls 

Wound  to  a  ball  in  a  net  behind: 
Your  cheek  was  chaste  as  a  quaker-girl's, 

And  your  mouth  —  there  was  never  to  my  mind, 
Such  a  funny  mouth,  for  it  would  not  shut; 

And  the  dented  chin,  too,  —  what  a  chin! 
There  were  certain  ways  when  you  spoke,  some  words 

That  you  know  you  never  could  pronounce : 
You  were  thin,  however;  like  a  bird's 

Your  hand  seemed  —  some  would  say,  the  pounce 
Of  a  scaly-footed  hawk  —  all  but ! 

The  world  was  right  when  it  called  you  thin. 

This  is  a  characteristic  piece  of  Browningesque  au 
dacity.  The  women  of  most  poets  are  of  a  regular 
beauty  hard  to  define.  How  shadowy  is  Maud,  for 
instance,  in  spite  of  the  "little  head  running  over 
with  curls,"  the  feet  "like  sunny  gems,"  the  "exqui 
site  voice,"  beside  this  bundle  of  unclassical,  fascinat 
ing  irregularities!  The  formation  that  keeps  the  lips 
apart,  showing  a  white  tooth  or  two,  makes  a  mouth 
that  is  very  ready  to  smile  and  to  speak  impulsively. 


136     LIFE   OF  A  LITTLE   COLLEGE 

Browning's  apprenticeship  to  painting  and  sculpture 
taught  what  details  to  seize  on  and  what  to  reject. 

Evelyn  Hope  is  as  lovely  as  her  musical  name. 
Although  we  only  see  her  dead  in  her  maiden  cham 
ber,  as  we  watch  for  an  hour  with  her  lover,  she  seems 
to  be  the  spirit  of  youth.  Over  her  loveliness  death 
has  no  power.  She  is  asleep,  but  she  will  awake, 
and  remember  and  understand.  The  gods  loved  her 
and  made  her  of  "spirit,  fire  and  dew";  her  "hair  was 
amber";  her  mouth  was  geranium  red;  the  "sweet 
white  brow"  remains,  and  the  "sweet  cold  hand." 
No  aura  from  the  tomb  breathes  through  this  dark 
ened  room;  death  is  swallowed  up,  not  in  victory,  for 
there  is  no  struggle,  but  in  the  glorious  certainty  of 
reunion  and  desire  fulfilled.  The  lover  is  not  the  typ 
ical  "man  of  fifty";  he  is  the  poet,  the  eternal  youth, 
with  the  heart  to  adventure  worlds  beyond  the  grave ; 
the  beloved  is  almost  a  child.  How  the  poet  insists 
upon  her  youth!  The  artful  threefold  repetition  of 
one  epithet  hammers  the  idea  in:  — 

There  was  place  and  to  spare  for  the  frank  young  smile, 
And  the  red  young  mouth,  and  the  hair's  young  gold. 

Some  one,  we  feel,  must  have  sat  for  this  portrait. 

In  one  case  we  are  not  left  to  conjecture,  for  one 
poem  was  written  simply  to  record  the  beauty  of  a 
woman's  face.  Emily  Patmore  is  a  name  little  known, 


BROWNING'S   WOMEN  137 

and  yet  she  was  the  inspiration  of  two  poets.  As  was 
fitting,  her  husband-lover  celebrated  her  soul,  and 
Browning  the  friend  devoted  himself  to  the  portrayal 
of  the  outward  semblance.  ' '  The  Angel  in  the  House  " 
should  have  "A  Face"  for  its  frontispiece.  Now  that 
we  have  Patmore's  "Memoirs,"  with  a  reproduction 
of  Woolner's  medallion,  we  can  judge  for  ourselves 
how  well  deserved  is  the  praise  bestowed  upon  her, 
and  how  strangely  words,  mere  words,  when  rightly 
chosen,  can  give  the  effect  of  picture.  The  poet's  wish 
was  realized:  — 

If  one  could  have  that  little  head  of  hers 
Painted  upon  a  background  of  pale  gold, 

Such  as  the  Tuscan's  early  art  prefers! 
No  shade  encroaching  on  the  matchless  mould 

Of  those  two  lips,  which  should  be  opening  soft 
In  the  pure  profile;  not  as  when  she  laughs, 

For  that  spoils  all; 

Then  her  lithe  neck,  three  fingers  might  surround, 
How  it  should  waver  on  the  pale  gold  ground 
Up  to  the  fruit-shaped,  perfect  chin  it  lifts! 

Browning  does  not  confine  himself  to  the  face. 
Like  Tennyson,  he  paints  occasionally  from  the  un- 
draped  figure,  but  unlike  him,  he  explains  and  justi 
fies  his  course.  In  his  " parleying"  with  Francis 
Furini,  he  sets  forward,  once  and  for  all,  his  argu 
ment,  which  is  the  artist's  argument.  Tennyson  does 
not  argue,  he  only  paints.  "CEnone"  is,  one  might 


ij  8     LIFE   OF  A  LITTLE   COLLEGE 

say,  misnamed:  it  is  another  "Judgment  of  Paris," 
the  theme  of  uncounted  artists.  Tennyson  is  subtle. 
He  draws  attention  to  the  spear  of  Pallas,  "Against 
her  pearly  shoulder  leaning  cold,"  to  the  foot  of 
Aphrodite  rosy  white  among  the  violets,  to  the  super 
natural  flowers  and  fruits  that  over-garlanded  and 
embowered  the  scene,  until  the  figures  themselves 
seem  empty  spaces  of  white  canvas  waiting  to  be 
painted  in.  The  three  goddesses,  the  nymph  in  "Lu 
cretius,"  and  the  witch-woman  in  "Maeldune,"  are 
almost  the  only  exceptions  to  the  Tennysonian  rule 
of  drapery.  Browning's  treatment  of  the  difficult 
theme  is  direct,  frank,  manly,  a  perfect  contrast  to 
the  mawkishness  of  Swinburne  and  his  like.  Brown 
ing  surpasses  them  all  in  sheer  intensity  and  power 
of  vision,  and  in  vividness  of  realization;  but  it  would 
be  a  sickly  spirit,  indeed,  that  his  pictures  could  offend 
or  injure.  His  motive,  the  right  motive,  is  given  in 
"The  Lady  and  the  Painter."  As  might  be  expected, 
Browning,  the  original,  the  innovator,  the  rebel  against 
conventions  shakes  off  such  trammels  as  Early  Vic 
torian  prudishness  would  impose.  In  "Fifine,"  he 
discusses  at  length  the  relation  of  the  sexes,  and  illus 
trates  his  page  with  the  arch  enchantresses  of  all  time, 
Helen  and  Cleopatra.  All  down  the  ages,  poets  have 
joined  the  two.  Dante  saw  them  both  in  "La  bufera 
infernal"  of  the  second  circle:  — 


BROWNING'S   WOMEN  139 

Poi  e  Cleopatras  lussuriosa. 
Elena  vedi,  per  cui  tanto  reo 
Tempo  si  volse. 

Shakespeare  couples  them  in  Mercutio's  jesting  re 
view  of  the  beauties  of  all  time;  and  in  his  " Dream," 
Tennyson  again  sets  these  most  famous  of  fair  women 
side  by  side.  So  does  Browning  in  his  marvellous 
stanza  xx  of  "Fifine":  — 

See  Helen!  pushed  in  front  o'  the  world's  worst  night  and 

storm 

By  Lady  Venus'  hand  on  shoulder;  the  sweet  form 
Shrinkingly  prominent,  though  mighty,  like  a  moon 
Outbreaking  from  a  cloud. 

This  idea  of  beauty  shining  forth  like  the  moon  out 
of  a  cloud  is  elaborated  with  great  charm  in  "Pan 
and  Luna."  The  rest  of  the  conception  is  purely 
Homeric.  Seeing  Helen  pass  through  the  street,  after 
years  of  siege,  the  old  men  of  Troy  did  not  begrudge 
the  blood  and  strength  of  their  city  poured  out  in 
her  quarrel.  In  Browning's  phrase,  they  were  magic 
ally  brought  to  acquiesce  in  their  own  ravage.  Helen 
is  the  great  lady,  not  a  great  wanton,  like  Cleopatra, 
the  type  courtezan.  Helen  shrinks;  but  not  so  her 
companion;  she  knows  her  power  and  glories  in  it. 
Nude  though  she  be,  except  for  her  barbaric  jewels, 
there  is  intellect  in  the  poise  of  the  head,  and  infinite 
allure  in  the  " oblong  eye"  glancing  back  to  note  her 
conquests. 


i4o    LIFE  OF  A   LITTLE  COLLEGE 

See,  Cleopatra!  bared,  the  entire  and  sinuous  wealth 

O'  the  shining  shape;  each  orb  of  indolent  ripe  health 

Captured,  just  where  it  finds  a  fellow  orb  as  fine 

I'  the  body;  traced  about  by  jewels  which  outline, 

Fire-frame,  and  keep  distinct,  perfections  —  lest  they  melt 

To  soft  smooth  unity  ere  half  their  hold  be  felt : 

Yet,  o'er  that  white  and  wonder,  a  soul's  predominance 

I'  the  head  so  high  and  haught  —  except  one  thievish  glance 

From  back  of  oblong  eye,  intent  to  count  the  slain. 

Sordello's  vision  of  Palma,  the  nautch  in  "  Natural 
Magic/'  the  bathing  nymph  in  "Francis  Furini,"  and 
especially  "Pan  and  Luna"  are  also  triumphant  ex 
amples  of  artistry  with  a  right  spirit. 

Poetry  may  be  defined  as  Frauenlob,  the  praise  of 
women.  We  celebrate  them  in  epic,  drama,  ode,  son 
net,  lyric,  but,  with  such  exceptions  as  Sappho  and 
Mrs.  Browning,  they  do  not  make  a  return  in  kind. 
Ruskin  is  right  when  he  assures  us  that  Shakespeare 
has  no  heroes,  only  heroines,  and  that  Dante  builds 
up  his  vision  of  the  Three  Worlds  from  the  smile  of 
a  Florentine  maiden.  As  with  the  masters  of  song- 
craft,  so  with  all  the  guild-brothers,  "Beauty  draws 
us  with  a  single  hair."  Browning,  too,  has  come 
under  that  spell  and  knows  how  to  lay  it  on  others. 


THIS   IS   OUR  MASTER 


THIS    IS    OUR    MASTER 

T  TNDERGRADUATES  at  the  University  of  To- 
V_y  ronto  have  much  to  be  thankful  for,  now-a- 
days.  They  are  rich  hi  buildings,  equipment,  and 
courses  we  only  dreamed  of  in  the  early  eighties; 
and  yet  we  men  of  an  older  generation  need  not 
greatly  envy  them.  We  had  what  they  can  never 
have,  —  old  Convocation  Hall  and  Young. 

In  my  time,  Convocation  Hall  was  the  heart  of  the 
university  life.  There  we  gathered  in  June  for  ma 
triculation,  and  saw  for  the  first  time  those  other 
youths  who  were  to  be  our  comrades,  rivals,  or  mere 
acquaintances  in  the  new  life  we  were  all  beginning. 
Four  years  later,  in  another  June,  a  sifted  remnant 
of  us  knelt  upon  the  dais,  one  by  one,  laid  our  joined 
^hands  between  the  lavender  kids  of  the  Chancellor, 
and  swore  to  be  his  "men,"  as  Hereward  swore  alle 
giance  to  the  Conqueror,  as  Arthur's  knights  made 
oath  to  Arthur.  Between  those  two  Junes,  there 
were  many  strange  chapters  written  in  each  life 
history. 

Ruskin  tells  us  that  his  delight  in  the  famous  hall 
of  Christ's  Church  — " The  House,"  as  its  alumni 


i44     LIFE   OF  A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

proudly  call  it  —  was  taken  away  by  the  fact  that 
weekly  examinations  were  held  in  it;  but  I  cannot 
regret  that  ours  was  put  to  like  ignoble  use.  There 
is  a  reason  even  for  examinations,  and  any  one  who 
did  not  write  his  papers  in  Hall,  in  the  brave  days 
of  old  has  missed  a  great  deal.  The  ritual  even  for 
"supplemental"  was  imposing.  At  the  fated  hour, 
we  sat  about  the  room,  each  victim  at  his  own  altar, 
that  queer,  little,  solid,  winged,  squat,  awkward, 
moveable,  desk,  that  was  so  hard  to  get  between 
your  legs,  when  suddenly  we  heard  from  the  back 
of  the  room  the  loud  command,  "  Stand  up,  gentle 
men!"  and  we  stood  to  attention,  while  our  stern- 
faced  Bedel,  a  relic  of  Balaclava,  marched  in,  with 
the  mace  before  the  gowned  examiner  (I  wonder  if 
there  is  a  mace  now-a-days,  and  a  procession). 
Solemnly  McKim  laid  the  bauble  on  the  high  table; 
the  papers  were  dealt  out;  we  stood  trembling  until 
they  came  our  way,  then  seized  them  and  sank  down. 
Examiners,  we  thought,  always  looked  as  if  they 
regretted,  more  or  less,  the  performance  of  their  dis 
agreeable  duties.  As  Keats  truly  says  of  them,  — 

Half  ignorant,  they  turned  an  easy  wheel, 
That  set  sharp  racks  at  work,  to  pinch  and  peel. 

Generally  they  had  books  to  read  and  exhibited  a 
supreme  indifference  to  the  woes  of  their  unhappy 


THIS   IS   OUR   MASTER  145 

fellow  mortals.  We  used  to  think  that  when  our 
turn  came  to  be  examiners,  we  would  show  some 
signs  of  compassion,  or  try  to  make  things  easier, 
but  the  point  of  view  shifts  insensibly,  with  time. 
Sometimes  a  sad  examinee  sought  the  high  seat  to 
ask  the  throned  examiner  a  futile  question;  some 
times  a  friend  of  the  particular  Torquemada  visited 
the  torture-chamber.  Generally  he  was  a  recent 
graduate,  spruce  and  trim  enough  to  madden  Hot 
spur,  and  he  sauntered  up  the  aisle  with  an  air  of 
convinced  superiority  to  us  that  made  us  long  for 
his  heart's  blood.  But  barring  such  interruptions, 
it  was  scratch,  scribble,  scrawl,  without  drawing 
breath  until  the  mortal  two  hours  and  a  half  were 
over  and  all  candidates  were  ready  to  drop.  We 
wrote  on  a  special,  thin,  square,  unruled  paper 
which  was  lavishly  dispensed.  Surplus  sheets  were 
annexed  by  the  evil-minded  as  a  lawful  perquisite. 
Our  Gold  Medallist  in  Philosophy  was  understood 
to  hold  a  record  of  eighty-seven  of  these,  on  one 
" Honours"  examination,  fairly  covered  within  the 
stated  period.  One  examiner  —  long  since  gone  to 
his  account  —  was  credited  with  weighing  the  merits 
of  such  papers,  quite  literally,  in  a  pair  of  letter- 
scales;  but  this  tale  lacks  official  confirmation. 

Though   the   hall   was   associated   in   our   minds 
chiefly  with  varieties  of  refined  torture,  it  has  pleas- 


146     LIFE   OF  A  LITTLE   COLLEGE 

anter  uses.  And  even  torture  may  have  its  com 
pensations.  I  imagine  that  when  the  levers  slackened 
for  a  prisoner  on  the  rack,  the  words  of  some  old 
text  engraven  on  his  dungeon  walls,  the  colours  of 
the  sunset  seen  through  the  barred  loopholes  would 
fasten  themselves  upon  his  mind  for  the  very  reason 
that  every  nerve  was  crying  out  in  pain.  Even  in 
the  intervals  of  despair  between  fits  of  bad  writing 
known  only  to  the  non-mathematical  struggling  with 
cosines  and  tangents,  some  of  us  learned  more  im 
portant  lessons  from  the  Hall  than  we  got  in  the 
classroom  or  the  study. 

It  taught  us,  first,  the  meaning  of  the  builder's 
art.  The  great,  airy,  austere  chamber  was  the  most 
majestic  room  I  have  seen  in  America.  The  rugged 
outer  wall  of  grey  stone,  the  smooth  and  solid  inner 
facings,  the  tall,  clear  casements  at  the  sides,  whereat 
green  vine-leaves  waved  in  summer,  the  high-pitched 
roof  with  its  brown  solidity  and  wealth  of  grotesque 
carving,  —  there  was  one  devil  with  twisted  horns, 
that  used  to  waggle  his  tongue  at  me,  all  through 
Second  Year  Mechanics,  —  the  short  pillars  with 
every  chapiter  varied,  and,  more  than  all,  the  great 
painted  window  above  the  dais,  with  its  brave,  sad 
story  —  to  learn  the  meaning  of  these  things,  apart 
and  as  a  whole,  was  worth  at  least  one  place  on  the 
Honour  List.  After  knowing  only  the  lath-and- 


THIS   IS   OUR   MASTER  147 

plaster  makeshifts,  the  squalor  of  our  pioneer  tent- 
making,  which  we  dare  not  call  architecture,  it  was 
something  to  see,  to  stand  in,  to  frequent  daily  a 
building  that  was  really  built,  a  fabric  that  could 
be  swept  by  fire  and  not  a  stone  fall.  Convocation 
Hall  supplied  the  necessary  comment  to  "The  Seven 
Lamps." 

It  taught  us  another  lesson  even  more  important, 
—  the  meaning  of  the  word  "country."  Though 
dumb,  it  taught  us  to  speak  that  word  plain.  There 
in  the  great  painted  window,  confronting  us  every 
time  we  entered  the  Hall,  for  whatever  purpose, 
were  blazoned  three  names,  which  no  Canadian,  and 
certainly  no  Toronto  man,  can  afford  to  forget,  — 

Mewburn,  MacKenzie,  Tempest. 

One  day  in  June,  1866,  the  Queen's  Own  swung 
through  the  streets  of  Toronto,  with  the  traditional 
swagger  of  the  rifle  regiment,  and  in  the  ranks  of 
the  University  company  marched  three  young  men, 
who,  a  few  days  later,  were  brought  back  in  their 
coffins.  It  was  only  a  little  border  skirmish  and  our 
tiny  force  was  mishandled  by  an  auctioneer;  but 
Ridgeway  means  a  great  deal  to  us.  These  Toronto 
undergraduates  had  not  much  to  give,  only  the  bare 
life,  but  they  gave  it  freely  in  the  holiest  of  causes, 
on  the  frontier  of  their  native  land.  Let  it  be  re- 


148     LIFE  OF  A  LITTLE   COLLEGE 

membered  that  students  of  Toronto  were  the  first 
to  meet  the  bullets  of  the  invading  Fenian  ruffians. 
This  lesson  of  the  great  window  was  driven  home  by 
McCauPs  proud,  full- voiced  Latin:  — 

Qui  —  pro  patria  pugnantes,  —  occubuemnt. 

That  was  one  bit  of  a  dead  language  which  one  mere 
" Moderns"  man  brought  away  with  him  from  the 
'Varsity. 

There  were  other  reasons  for  feeling  gratitude  to 
the  architect  of  Convocation  Hall.  In  it  some  of  us 
learned  that  the  music  of  the  acknowledged  masters 
was  not  a  thing  to  be  dreaded,  but  "a  kind  of  in 
articulate,  unfathomable  speech,  which  leads  us  to 
the  edge  of  the  Infinite,  and  lets  us  for  moments 
gaze  into  that."  To  have  heard  the  "Sonata  Appas- 
sionata,"  or  the  overture  to  "Tannhauser"  for  the 
first  time  in  the  great  chamber,  is  an  event  to  be  re 
membered.  Then  in  the  old  days  there  was  a  girl 
violinist  with  dark  eyes  and  hair  who  used  to  play 
the  "Carnival  of  Venice"  at  conversazione  concerts. 
Her  music  begat  verses  to  her;  but  Toronto  men  are 
not  so  sentimental  now-a-days. 

Here,  too,  through  the  wisdom  of  our  Fellow  of 
Merton,  we  learned  the  meaning  of  the  lines  about 
" gorgeous  tragedy  with  sceptred  pall."  The  "An 
tigone"  cost  not  a  little  to  produce,  in  time  and 


THIS   IS   OUR   MASTER          149 

money  and  mental  wear  and  tear;  but  it  was  worth 
the  outlay  ten  times  over.  It  was  something  that 
the  Glee  Club  abandoned  "Alouette"  and  the  "  Car 
men  ad  Initiandos  Tirones"  for  "Megaloi  de  logoi, 
megalas  plegas."  The  lights,  the  colour,  the  shift 
ing  statuesque  groups,  the  masses  of  the  chorus, 
"the  music  of  an  antique  tongue"  blended  with  the 
music  of  Mendelssohn,  made  one  Greek  play  at  least 
for  ever  comprehensible  to  us. 

Convocation  Hall  saw,  besides,  our  little  triumphs 
of  the  hour,  heard  our  spoutings  and  debatings.  In 
what  arena  since  has  success  brought  a  finer  glow  or 
tasted  sweeter? 

With  much  unfeigned  reluctance  I  must  confess 
that  the  occasion  of  my  first  view  of  Professor  Young 
was  a  "supplemental"  examination,  in  Convoca 
tion  Hall,  for  I  was  one  of  those  unwise  persons  who 
took  three  years  at  Toronto,  when  I  might  have 
taken  four,  and  suffered  in  consequence.  With  the 
Freshman's  imperfect  sense  of  proportion,  I  had 
just  taken  the  seat  of  a  fellow  sinner  in  a  higher  year, 
and  had  my  error  pointed  out  to  me  with  dignity 
but  decision,  when  an  old  gentleman  marched  up 
the  aisle,  mounted  the  dais,  and  faced  us  to  make 
some  unimportant  announcement.  He  was  an  old 
gentleman  with  a  bald  head,  a  white  beard,  and  a 
rasping  voice:  and  I  wondered  with  all  the  wonder 


150    LIFE  OF  A  LITTLE   COLLEGE 

of  a  Freshman  why  the  others  cheered.  My  digni 
fied  senior  told  me  that  it  was  "Young";  but  the 
name  meant  nothing  to  me.  Later  I  was  one  of  those 
who  cheered  the  casual  mention  of  his  name  on  a 
programme,  much  more  his  bodily  presence. 

There  is  no  weather  now  so  fine  as  when  the  term 
began  in  those  old  days.  October  mornings  were 
always  bright  and  kindly  with  a  touch  of  frost  in 
the  air  to  hint  of  the  coming  winter.  The  sunshine 
was  inside  the  building,  as  well  as  out,  and  gilded  all 
the  courses.  One  of  the  first  make-weights  I  had  to 
shoulder,  in  addition  to  my  "Honours"  course,  was 
Young's  lectures  in  Metaphysics;  and  I  entered  the 
class  unthinkingly.  Such  was  the  good  pleasure  of 
the  authorities,  the  decree  of  the  curriculum;  and  it 
was  not  mine  to  reason  why,  —  a  remark  which 
needs  explanation. 

When  Toronto  men  of  the  early  eighties  call  that 
tune  Toronto's  Age  of  Gold,  they  are  thinking 
chiefly  of  certain  hearts  of  gold,  which  every  test  of 
time  only  proves  true  metal.  But  it  is  just  possible 
that  the  dons  of  that  day  did  not  hold  precisely  this 
opinion.  We  were  undoubtedly  a  licentious  crew. 
The  accepted  theory  of  university  life  was  "to  en 
large  your  mind  and  play  football";  and  some  men 
did  both  with  marked  success.  We  certainly  never 
wanted  energy.  The  men  of  the  notorious  "sore- 


THIS   IS   OUR   MASTER  151 

head  department"  found  the  university  instruction 
deficient  and  organized  the  mother  of  all  the  clubs 
to  make  good  that  deficiency.  We  hunted  out  Ger 
man  families  in  the  city  to  board  with,  to  improve 
our  German;  we  spent  our  vacations  in  Quebec,  to 
improve  our  French;  we  taught  peanut  vendors  in 
the  Italian  Sunday  School,  to  improve  our  Italian. 
We  worried  the  authorities  into  bettering  the  courses. 
We  cultivated  literature  on  a  little  oatmeal;  we 
published  an  anthology  of  our  own  immortal  writ 
ings;  we  astonished  the  world  with  a  new  Protes 
tantism.  One  oddity  diverged  from  the  regular  pre 
scriptions  into  heraldry  and  Russian.  Our  Shelley 
spent  a  winter  in  Paris,  where  he  consorted  with  the 
people  called  Anarchists,  and  returned  a  missionary 
of  the  gospel  of  Henry  George.  We  went  to  England 
as  cattle-men,  that  we  might  stand  in  the  Abbey  in 
the  Poets'  Corner  and  see  with  our  own  eyes  those 
sacred  places  which  had  belonged  to  the  geography 
of  Fairy-Land.  We  read  " Sartor"  for  the  Blumine 
episode;  we  despised  " gig-men";  our  greatest  oath 
was,  By  Saint  Thomas  of  Carlyle.  Above  all,  we 
put  in  practice  a  rude  elective  system  of  our  own, 
quite  distinct  from  that  contemplated  by  the  uni 
versity  regulations.  If  lectures  were,  in  our  mature 
judgment,  not  good,  we  refrained  from  attending 
them;  or,  if  the  tradition  ran  that  a  particular  course 


1 52     LIFE   OF   A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

was  forty  years  old,  or  thereabouts,  as  the  frayed 
and  yellowing  manuscript  attested,  we  strove  to 
lure  the  lecturer  from  the  well-beaten  highway  into 
delightful  by-paths  of  anecdote  and  reminiscence. 
If  lectures  were  good,  we  attended,  even  "Pass" 
lectures;  and  that  was  the  reason  Young's  room  was 
always  crowded. 

His  was  the  first  room  in  the  eastern  corridor. 
Twice  a  week  it  was  filled  at  ten  o'clock  with  a  noisy 
throng,  sitting  on  the  hard  benches,  chatting  or  look 
ing  out  upon  the  lawn  through  the  narrow,  diamond- 
paned  windows.  On  the  stroke  of  the  hour,  there 
enters  hastily  an  old  gentleman  in  black,  with  his 
gown  slipping  off  his  shoulders,  and  his  mortar 
board  in  his  hand,  full  of  manuscript.  Without 
noticing  the  applause  which  always  greets  his  en 
trance,  —  for  in  Canada  we  have  this  hearty  Scot 
tish  custom  which  so  shocks  the  decorous  Ameri 
can  visitor  in  Edinburgh  classrooms,  —  he  swiftly 
divests  himself  of  his  gown,  which  he  bundles  up  on 
the  top  of  the  high,  spindling  reading-desk,  scrawled 
all  over  with  "Hence  accordingly."  Swiftly  he  takes 
the  notes  from  the  trencher,  which  he  plumps  down 
on  top  of  the  gown,  wheels  round  to  the  blackboard 
and  dashes  off  an  outline  of  the  coming  lecture. 
Each  head  of  the  discourse  is  marked  with  the  quaint 
device  of  a  little  bob-tailed  arrow  flying  straight  at 


THIS   IS   OUR   MASTER  153 

it.  I  did  not  understand  the  symbolism  then;  nor, 
I  believe,  did  Young  himself.  Those  arrows  signi 
fied  that  these  were  winged  words,  as  goads  fastened 
by  the  masters  of  assemblies. 

In  a  minute  or  two,  the  outline  is  written,  and  the 
professor  turns  to  the  class  with  a  smile. 

Let  us  take  a  good  look  at  him ;  for  we  shall  never 
see  his  like  again.  He  was  a  survival  of  an  extinct 
race  of  giants,  the  Edinburgh  metaphysicians;  and  he 
brought  into  the  classroom  all  the  dignity  of  the  old 
school.  He  always  appeared  in  his  "  blacks,"  flapped 
trousers  of  a  pattern  worn  early  in  the  century  and 
an  old-fashioned  claw-hammer  coat,  always  looking 
new  and  carefully  brushed.  His  linen,  too,  was  al 
ways  immaculate,  and,  in  token  of  the  profession  he 
had  abandoned,  he  sported  a  clerical  tie.  In  figure  he 
was  of  middle  size,  neither  short  nor  tall,  markedly 
sturdy,  in  spite  of  a  slight  stoop.  At  first  sight  his 
face  was  not  inspiring.  He  had  a  bald  head,  a  thick 
nose,  a  port-wine  complexion,  and  the  fine,  clear  white 
hair  and  beard  which  go  with  it.  The  brows  formed 
a  heavy  ridge,  "the  bar  of  Michael  Angelo,"  from 
which  the  rest  of  the  skull  retreated;  the  forehead 
seemed  low ;  but  all  that  was  best  of  him  looked  out 
of  his  bright  eyes.  He  had  a  trick  of  shutting  them 
tight,  and  shading  them  with  his  left  hand,  while  he 
motioned  with  his  right,  as  he  said,  — 


154     LIFE   OF   A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

"When  I  think  of  a  centaurr,  I  see  a  centaurr  with 
the  horrse's  body  as  here  [gesture]  and  the  man's 
body  as  here  [gesture].  And  when  I  think  of  Socrates 
I  see  Socrates  with  his  bald  head,  —  and  his  snub 
nose,  —  and  his  luminous  eyes." 

Then  we  held  our  breath,  for  it  was  plain  to  the 
meanest  understanding  that  Young  did  behold  a  veri 
table  "centaurr,"  trotting  along  in  an  ideal  world; 
and  as  for  "Socrates,"  —  well,  some  of  us  had  read 
"Waring"  and  puzzled  over  the  meaning  of  the  last 
word. 

Young  always  stood  at  lecture.  We  should  have 
felt  it  to  be  a  violation  of  the  order  of  nature,  to  see 
him  sit  down.  Indeed,  there  was  hardly  room  for 
him  to  do  so,  penned  in  as  he  was  between  the  black 
board  and  the  regiment  of  long  desks,  which  filled  the 
room.  He  stood,  not  on  a  platform  above  us,  but  on 
a  level  with  us.  Perhaps  there  was  a  meaning  in  this, 
too.  The  imagination  cannot  picture  him  lolling  in 
a  comfortable  Katheder  and  dictating  an  interminable 
"literature"  of  his  subject.  As  he  begins  to  speak, 
his  voice  is  harsh,  and  thin;  the  Scotch  burr  grates 
intolerably.  But  soon  it  gathers  richness  and  depth 
and  power;  Young  is  warming  to  his  work,  and  your 
only  fear  is  that  he  will  stop.  The  lecture  was  not  an 
oration,  but  a  model  of  clear  and  rapid  exposition, 
following  the  outline  on  the  board.  It  is  punctuated 


THIS   IS  OUR  MASTER          155 

by  rounds  of  hearty  Kentish  fire,  as  each  point  is 
made.  Young  understands  and  waits  with  a  smile 
far  it  to  cease,  before  he  goes  on  again.  He  generally 
ends  in  a  climax,  as  on  that  day,  when  he  read,  in 
illustration  of  some  statement,  ten  or  a  dozen  lines 
from  "  Elaine,"  closing  the  book  with  a  sweeping 
bow  and  a  comprehensive  smile,  at  the  words,  "And 
soa  she  lived  in  phaantasy." 

Young  was  old-fashioned  in  his  illustrations.  Chief 
of  these  were  the  watch  and  the  orange  and  the  round 
red  disk  he  talked  so  much  about  but  never  produced. 
They  had  only  an  ideal  existence.  I  have,  however, 
a  portrait  of  that  red  disk,  labelled  to  prevent  mis 
takes,  and  I  believe  it  to  be  a  good  likeness.  This 
simple  object  "  involved 

"  (a)  A  sensation  of  Redness, 

"(b)  A  manifold  of  Sensations  under  relations  of 
Extension." 

Above  all,  there  was  the  famous  ribbon,  "blue  at 
one  end  and  red  at  the  other,"  of  which  Irwin  made 
such  capital  and  kindly  fun  in  the  "'Varsity  Book." 
We  knew  them  all  as  old  friends  and  felt  the  lecture 
to  be  rather  incomplete  at  which  none  of  them  put 
in  an  appearance. 

His  manner  in  the  classroom  was  fascinating  —  no 
weaker  word  will  do.  He  had  a  way  of  beaming  on  a 
roomful  of  young  men,  as  if  each  and  every  one  was 


156     LIFE   OF  A  LITTLE   COLLEGE 

his  particular  friend.  His  Honour  men  he  cultivated; 
but  undistinguished  Pass  men  like  the  present  writer 
he  did  not  know  from  Adam.  Toronto  traditions  do 
not  favour  the  growth  of  personal  relations  between 
teachers  and  taught.  No  member  of  our  class  will, 
I  fancy,  dispute  my  claim  to  being  the  worst  meta 
physician  in  it.  I  remember  writing  down  one  of 
Young's  citations  from  one  of  the  old  Grecians: 
"Hidden  harmony  is  better  than  apparent."  I, 
however,  wrote  it  thus,  "Hidden  harmony  is  better 
than  a  parent,"  and  puzzled  over  it  a  long  time,  as 
well  I  might.  The  saying  was  no  doubt  deep  and  wise, 
for  it  was  Greek,  and  Young  had  quoted  it  with  ap 
proval,  but  I  felt  that  now  I  was  really  getting  beyond 
my  depth.  The  only  time  Young  quizzed  me  in  class, 
I  failed,  and  he  snubbed  me,  contrary  to  his  custom, 
in  a  way  I  did  not  wholly  deserve.  It  was  a  rude 
awakening,  for  up  to  that  time  I  had  cherished  the 
delusion  that  I  stood  specially  well  with  him,  and  I 
believe  every  man  in  the  class  had  much  the  same 
notion  in  regard  to  himself.  His  portrait  shows  him 
grave,  but  as  I  call  up  his  face,  it  is  always  shining 
with  the  inward  glow  of  thought  and  kindliness. 
Only  once  was  he  stern  with  us,  when  he  thought 
that,  in  the  excitement  of  a  Literary  Society  election, 
we  had  tried  to  discredit  a  Roman  Catholic  candidate 
on  account  of  his  religion.  We  had  not  done  so  in 


THIS   IS   OUR  MASTER          157 

fact,  but  we  took  the  rebuke  to  heart.  We  "had 
such  reverence  for  his  blame. " 

No  course  in  Metaphysics  is  complete  without  a 
consideration  of  the  child's  mind.  The  modern  psy 
chologist  observes  his  own  infants  and  makes  a  book 
of  the  results,  a  course  of  action  barred  to  Young,  for 
he  was  an  old  bachelor.  The  college  legend  ran  that 
the  lady  he  was  to  marry  perished  in  the  Desjardins 
Bridge  accident.  Still  his  treatment  of  this  part  of 
his  subject  could  not  be  considered  unsatisfactory. 
His  references  to  the  young  things  had  more  than  a 
little  of  Elia's  tenderness  and  humour,  as  in  "Dream 
Children,"  that  vision  of  the  circle  round  the  red 
hearth-fire,  that  haunts  the  childless  man.  Some  of 
us  expected  to  teach,  and  Young  used  to  counsel 
us  not  to  be  too  hard  on  the  bairns,  not  to  trouble 
if  they  were  restless  in  school  and  fidgeted  on  their 
benches.  "  Children  wake  up  in  the  morning  and  their 
nervous  centres  are  lattded  with  energy,"  he  would 
say;  and  this  piece  of  advice  saved  one  teacher,  at 
least,  from  many  a  mistake.  The  baby,  he  pretended, 
Was  at  first  a  very  unattractive,  unmoral  little  animal. 

"Gentlemen,"  —  and  there  was  education  in  the 
way  Young  said  "Gentlemen,"  —  "you  will  some 
times  see  a  crrowd  of  ladies  about  a  little  infant,  and 
they  are  saying,  'Oh,  the  dearr  little  thing!  Oh,  the 
sweet  little  thing!'  Gentlemen,  I  tell  you,"  — here 


158     LIFE  OF  A  LITTLE  COLLEGE 

his  eyes  twinkled  and  his  whole  face  beamed  Like  a 
sun,  as  he  added  with  comic  vehemence,  —  "a  baaby 
is,  'a  wretch  concenterred  all  on  self.'" 

Young's  lecture  was  more  than  a  lecture.  As  a  mere 
expositor,  simply  as  a  teacher  of  his  subject,  able  to 
arouse  interest  and  hold  attention,  I  never  heard  his 
equal.  The  hour  we  spent  in  his  classroom  never 
seemed  long.  If  a  student  was  ever  bored  or  tired  I 
cannot  tell,  for  I  never  saw  or  heard  anything  but 
Young  from  first  to  last.  To  say  that  he  was  all  alive 
with  interest  in  his  subject  and  in  his  students  is  to 
understate  the  fact.  At  each  lecture  he  seemed  to 
feel  that  from  all  eternity  he  had  but  this  one  brief 
hour  to  drive  home  upon  the  minds  of  this  one  set  of 
men,  this  one  set  of  truths;  and  he  made  the  most  of 
it.  How  familiar  is  the  phrase:  "And  I  shall  think 
the  hour  well  spent,  gentlemen,  if  I  succeed  in  making 
this  one  point  clear  to  you."  He  never  condescended 
to  classroom  tricks,  or  the  freakishness  of  a  carefully 
cultivated  eccentricity;  he  never  attempted  to  raise 
a  laugh,  but  there  was  a  good  deal  of  laughing  in  his 
class.  Sometimes  it  was  the  laugh  of  intellectual 
superiority  as  Mill,  Reid,  Hamilton,  and  Company, 
were  battered  about,  and  we  learned  that  it  was  pay 
ing  something  or  other  too  high  a  compliment  to  call  it 
wrong;  it  was  nonsense.  And  the  last  word  came  out 
like  a  bullet  from  a  gun.  Sometimes  the  laugh  had  a 


THIS   IS  OUR  MASTER          159 

less  profound  cause,  for  Young's  humour  bubbled  up 
irrepressibly  from  the  inner  depths  of  the  man  and 
his  interest  in  his  subject;  and  he  simply  shared  it 
with  us,  along  with  all  that  was  best  in  his  nature. 

I  have  never  heard  his  equal.  I  have  sat  in  the 
seminar  of  Johns  Hopkins's  great  Grecian,  with  men 
from  Maine  and  California,  from  Toronto  and  Baton 
Rouge,  and  marvelled  at  the  union  of  culture  and 
character,  the  blending  of  brilliancy  and  learning,  the 
perfect  reconciliation  of  the  exact  scholarship  we  as 
sociate  with  Germany  and  the  grace  and  wit  we  as 
sociate  with  Oxford,  in  the  Head  of  the  Department. 
I  know  the  reverence  of  Harvard  men  for  their  Pro 
fessor  Emeritus  of  Fine  Arts,  the  friend  of  Ruskin 
and  Carlyle,  of  all  just  men,  of  all  good  causes.  I 
have  heard  him  lecture  to  a  class  of  five  hundred  in 
"old  Massachusetts,"  at  nine  of  a  rainy  morning. 
Behind  every  sentence  of  his  mellow  English,  I  saw 
years  of  special  knowledge,  special  insight,  a  lifetime 
of  exquisite  culture.  Both  lecturers  opened  the  doors 
to  new  worlds  of  wonder.  But  Young's  gift  was 
something  different  and  apart.  He  took  hold  of  us; 
he  woke  us  to  life,  the  life  of  the  mind.  His  teaching 
was,  in  effect,  if  not  in  method,  more  like  what  we 
learn  of  the  teaching  of  Socrates  than  anything  I  can 
imagine,  of  a  modern  Socrates,  a  lover  of  wisdom, 
reenforced  by  the  perfervid  energy  of  the  Scot.  Those 


160    LIFE  OF  A  LITTLE  COLLEGE 

who  knew  him  and  loved  him,  who  recognize  how 
much  they  owe  to  his  teaching,  feel  that  Young  is 
worthy  to  take  rank  in  that  sacred  band,  so  well 
praised  by  another  grateful  scholar. 

For  rigorous  teachers  seized  my  youth, 
And  purged  its  faith  and  trimm'd  its  fire, 

Showed  me  the  high  white  star  of  truth, 
There  bade  me  gaze  and  there  aspire. 

What  did  Young  teach  us?  Not  trusting  to  memory 
alone,  I  hunted  out  an  old  notebook,  to  find  the  an 
swer.  It  is  not  a  very  creditable  production.  There 
are  disordered  pencillings  of  various  courses,  which 
should  have  been  neatly  copied  into  another  book 
and  were  not,  bits  of  English  and  German  biogra 
phy,  drawings  of  shells,  Chapman's  scale  of  hardness, 
alongside  a  recognizable  portrait  of  the  professor  and 
his  skull-cap,  quotations  and  extracts  from  various 
sources,  which  would  not  be  of  the  slightest  use  in 
examinations;  but  the  greatest  part  is  taken  up  with 
Young's  lectures.  The  notes  are  not  very  good  notes. 
How  could  any  one  take  notes  while  Young  was  lec 
turing?  Mine  were  seldom  more  than  the  outlines 
from  the  blackboard,  decorated  freely  with  the  fa 
mous  bob-tailed  arrows.  The  course  was  evidently 
the  traditional  Philosophy-Logic  course  of  the  old 
curriculum,  for  Young  knew  not  the  New  Psychology 
with  its  laboratories  and  experiments.  Though  I 


THIS   IS   OUR   MASTER          161 

must  have  passed  his  examinations  (for  the  charity 
of  some  examiners  is  boundless) ,  I  am  not  and  never 
could  be  a  metaphysician.  For  the  life  of  me,  I 
cannot  tell  what  sentence  of  the  "Kritik"  it  was, 
which  Young  so  often  assured  us  "should  be  written 
in  letters  of  gold."  Even  now  an  article  of  Caird's  on 
"  Reality,"  or  a  conversation  on  philosophy  makes 
my  head  swim.  But  I  would  not  exchange  Young's 
course  in  metaphysics  for  all  the  others  I  took  at 
Toronto.  Metaphysics  was  but  a  small  part  of  that 
course.  Young  was  a  born  teacher.  That  he  taught 
us  philosophical  truths  of  the  last  importance  was 
still  a  slighter  thing  than  teaching  us  to  think  and 
teaching  us  to  live. 

The  problem  of  the  external  world!  Had  any  of 
us  the  faintest  notion  that  there  was  such  a  prob 
lem,  before  our  Chrysostom  opened  his  lips  of  gold? 
This  was  a  common  Canadian  sort  of  universe,  which 
we  all  understood  well  enough  for  all  practical  pur 
poses.  Then  came  the  awakening,  the  veil  was  taken 
from  our  eyes.  This  solid-seeming  world  was  but 
the  shadow  of  our  dream,  if,  indeed,  it  had  being  at 
all,  apart  from  ourselves.  Everything  we  saw  and 
touched,  and  heard  and  felt,  the  most  humdrum  effect 
of  our  activity,  the  commonest  motion  of  foot  or 
hand,  were  all  parts  of  one  unending  miracle. 

Turning  our  eyes  inward  upon  ourselves  as  Cas- 


162     LIFE  OF  A  LITTLE   COLLEGE 

sius  wished  that  Brutus  could,  we  found  there  also 
a  new  strange  world.  "The  abysmal  depths  of  per 
sonality!"  There  was,  then,  a  world  within  us, 
wherein  this  marvellous  outer  world  to  the  remotest 
point  of  light  in  the  heavens  is  embraced^  compre 
hended,  set  in  order.  The  procession  of  Appearances 
took  on  a  pleasing  strangeness  and  the  horizon  of 
those  blue  October  mornings  on  the  Lawn  widened 
to  Immensity.  It  was  the  time  of  fresh  enthusi 
asm,  of  loyal  friendships,  of  young  love,  and  this  new 
teaching  came  to  give  them  all  a  new  value,  a  new 
meaning,  a  new  force. 

Young  began  as  a  Scottish  minister,  but  he  found 
his  true  work  as  a  teacher  in  the  University.  Inevi 
tably  something  of  the  minister  clung  to  him,  a  sug 
gestion  in  the  dress,  a  hint  of  the  pulpit  in  his  perora 
tions,  but  best  of  all  the  true  prophet's  moral  earnest 
ness.  He  was  a  preacher  of  righteousness.  His 
course  was  not  a  mere  exercise  of  ingenuity,  a  neces 
sary  part  of  the  curriculum,  a  prescribed  exercise  for 
a  degree.  As  he  taught,  he  saw  before  him  human 
souls  needing  light,  needing  guidance;  the  fault  was 
his  if  he  showed  no  light,  or  light  that  led  astray.  He 
came  to  his  work  as  the  potter  to  the  raw  clay,  from 
which  he  knows  may  be  fashioned  vessels  to  honour 
and  vessels  to  dishonour.  What  blame  too  heavy 
for  the  workman  if,  from  slackness  on  his  part,  the 


THIS   IS   OUR  MASTER  163 

work  leave  the  shaping  hand,  flawed,  or  weak,  or 
bent  awry!  Though  a  preacher,  he  was  no  partizan 
of  a  narrow,  unlovely  orthodoxy.  To  youths  of  every 
shade  of  belief,  from  all  parts  of  Puritan  Canada, 
to  Protestant  and  Catholic,  to  those  who  wished  to 
live  so  that  they  could  look  their  mothers  in  the  face, 
to  those  who  were  using  their  first  freedom  to  take 
their  first  lessons  in  vice,  Young  preached  the  great 
doctrines  by  which  the  pillars  of  the  world  stand  firm. 
He  leant  chiefly  toward  those  that  insist  on  the  dig 
nity  of  man  and  the  worth  of  the  human  soul:  "self- 
reverence,  self-knowledge,  self -control."  We  all  heard 
him,  for  he  spoke  plain,  and  if  we  did  not  heed,  the 
fault  was  ours,  not  his.  Life  only  approves  his  wis 
dom.  In  difficulty  after  difficulty,  in  crisis  after 
crisis,  how  often  have  his  old  students  found  some 
winged  word  of  Young's  rising  to  comfort  or  to  re 
buke! 

And  now,  —  he  is  gone.  He  wrote  nothing;  his 
chief  memorial  is  builded  in  the  hearts  of  those  he 
taught.  Now  Toronto  men  leave  the  college  walls  by 
hundreds,  graduates  in  good  standing,  to  whom  his 
great  tradition,  his  great  language,  mean  nothing. 
It  is  a  pity.  Convocation  Hall  is  gone,  too,  like  the 
old,  wise  master,  like  the  snows  of  last  year.  The 
new  order  is  no  doubt  better,  but  the  old  interior, 
the  precious  carvings,  the  broad  stair  in  the  library 


164     LIFE  OF  A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

turret  with  the  latticed  window  that  opened  toward 
the  sunrising,  have  perished  irrevocably.  No  wonder 
the  Great  Fire  killed  our  old  President! 

Young  worked  until  within  a  few  days  of  his  death. 
He  was  numbered  with  the  fortunate  ones  who  die  in 
harness.  His  eye  was  not  dim,  nor  his  natural  force 
abated.  And  it  was  fitting  that  he  should  make  a 
final  progress  from  Convocation  Hall  in  all  the  pomp 
of  the  eternal  silence.  I  wish  I  could  have  stood  on 
the  dais,  under  the  memorial  window,  beside  the 
coffin  on  which  lay  the  old  college  cap,  like  the  sol 
dier's  helmet  on  the  soldier's  bier.  I  wish  I  could 
have  joined  in  the  hymn  raised  by  those  who  were 
buckling  on  the  armour  of  life  over  all  that  was  mortal 
of  him  who  had  laid  it  down.  I  wish  I  could  have 
heard  the  prayer  of  the  deep-hearted  pastor  of  St. 
Andrew's,  and  the  words  he  spoke  of  the  best  and 
wisest  and  humblest  of  his  parishioners.  I  wish  I 
could  have  looked  once  more  upon  that  honoured 
head  before  the  clods  covered  it;  and  have  followed 
my  old  master  to  his  last  resting-place.  I  could  not, 
for  I  was  far  away.  I  can  only  lay  this  belated 
token  of  my  gratitude  upon  his  grave. 


Forgive  the  feeble  script  that  does  thee  wrong! 


CHILD    OF   THE    BALLADS 


CHILD    OF    THE    BALLADS 

WHEN  the  general  public  hears  of  a  professor's 
death,  it  is  moved  and  interested  by  the  news 
almost  as  much  as  it  would  be  by  the  announcement 
that  some  grammar  or  dictionary  or  table  of  loga 
rithms  had  been  thumbed  to  pieces  and  finally  laid 
aside.  In  many  cases  the  public  indifference  is 
justifiable;  but  in  the  death  of  such  a  man  as  Pro 
fessor  Child  the  loss  is  national;  and  it  would  be  a 
thousand  pities  if  the  outside  world  did  not  recognize 
its  significance.  To  the  world  of  scholars,  however, 
that  inner  circle  which  must  always  bound  the  in 
fluence  of  a  university  teacher,  the  sense  of  loss  is 
only  too  poignant.  His  death  leaves  a  gap  in  their 
ranks  which  will  not  soon  be  filled.  The  little  world 
of  those  who  really  care  for  the  highest  things  of 
life  is  darker  now  that  he  has  gone.  As  it  can  do 
good  and  not  harm  to  know  what  manner  of  man  he 
was,  these  brief  personal  recollections  are  set  down 
in  the  hope  of  bringing  an  unusual  character  more 
perfectly  before  the  public  eye,  now  that  such  an 
action  cannot  possibly  offend  him. 

167 


1 68     LIFE   OF  A  LITTLE   COLLEGE 

I  had  not  the  honour  of  being  his  friend,  nor 
even  of  receiving  his  instruction  in  the  university. 
My  acquaintance  with  him  began  almost  casually, 
and  I  could  not  have  seen  him  or  had  speech  with 
him  more  than  a  score  of  times  altogether.  Neither 
a  colleague  nor  a  pupil,  I  was  only  one  of  the  many 
who  had  no  claim  upon  him,  to  whom  he  showed 
kindness,  and  whose  memory  of  him  and  of  his 
kindness  is  ineffaceable. 

On  migrating  from  Johns  Hopkins  to  Harvard  in 
the  summer  of  1888  to  work  at  a  thesis  during  vaca 
tion,  I  obtained  a  letter  of  introduction  from  the 
President  of  Johns  Hopkins  to  Professor  Child.  It 
would  be  an  inspiring  thought  for  even  the  humblest 
worker  in  the  same  department  to  remember  that  he 
had  even  once  seen  and  spoken  with  the  doyen  of 
English  scholarship  in  America.  Along  with  the 
letter  the  President  gave  me  a  piece  of  excellent 
advice;  namely,  not  to  present  the  introduction  in 
the  morning,  but  to  wait  till  some  afternoon;  then  to 
walk  along  Kirkland  Street  until  I  came  to  a  house 
with  a  rose-garden  in  front;  there  I  should  find  any 
day,  about  five  o'clock,  an  old  gentleman  tending 
his  flowers,  who  would  be,  indeed,  the  personage  I 
sought.  I  followed  the  directions  and  was  rewarded 
by  seeing  the  great  man  for  the  first  time  among 
his  roses,  a  most  fitting  place  for  him.  The  first 


CHILD   OF   THE   BALLADS       169 

sight  was  something  of  a  shock.  All  preconceived 
notions  of  what  a  Harvard  professor  would  look  like 
vanished  at  the  sight  of  the  man  who  took  my  letter 
as  the  rightful  owner.  The  famous  scholar  presented 
a  short,  rotund  little  figure  (the  student's  nickname 
for  him  was  "Curly"  in  allusion  either  to  his  shape 
or  to  his  remarkable  hair),  dressed  in  well-worn 
brown  clothes  and  crowned  with  a  shocking  bad  hat. 
On  second  thoughts,  his  trim  had  its  justification. 
It  would  be  queer  to  oversee  the  mulching  of  roses 
in  one's  best  clothes. 

From  under  the  rim  of  the  old  straw  hat  peered 
two  as  keen  eyes  as  I  ever  saw  in  a  human  face. 
They  were  eyes  which  could  not  be  deceived  or 
turned  aside  from  looking  you  through  and  through. 
They  seemed  to  read  you  in  a  moment  and  put  you 
in  your  right  place.  The  gold-rimmed  glasses  seemed 
to  add  brightness  to  the  eyes.  Some  spectacles  form 
a  mask  behind  which  the  owner  retires  and  remains 
effectually  concealed;  but  Child's  were  perfectly  clear 
and  seemed  to  ray  out  light  and  intensify  his  pierc 
ing  vision.  The  colour  of  his  eyes  was  a  very  bright 
hazel  brown. 

A  day  or  two  later  came  a  kind  informal  note 
asking  me  to  dine.  The  family  was  out  of  town  and 
the  Professor  did  the  honours  alone.  It  was  a  hot, 
quiet,  Cambridge  Sunday  and  his  cool,  shady  rooms 


LIFE   OF  A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

formed  a  most  welcome  retreat.  The  convives  made 
up  the  number  of  the  graces,  the  lowest  limit  as 
signed  by  Rogers,  for  the  Professor  had  taken  pity 
on  another  young  scholastic  person.  The  dinner 
itself  formed  a  grateful  oasis  to  one  who  had  wan 
dered  long  in  the  wilderness  of  boarding-houses. 
But  the  talk  was  the  real  entertainment  and  it  was 
a  feast  of  fat  things.  Never  was  host  freer  from  any 
touch  of  awkwardness  or  appearance  of  effort.  In 
a  very  short  time  he  put  us  youngsters  completely 
at  our  ease  and  talked  with  a  freedom,  a  boyish  zest 
in  things  that  interested  them  that  was  surprising 
and  delightful.  At  table  he  was  chiefly  the  genial 
host,  easy  but  attentive  in  his  hospitality.  During 
the  courses  the  conversation  was  more  or  less 
broken,  but  afterwards,  in  his  cool  study,  over 
the  coffee  and  cigars,  the  talk  ran  more  in  straight 
lines. 

I  like  to  think  of  Child  as  I  saw  him  that  after 
noon,  at  his  ease  under  his  own  roof-tree,  enjoying 
his  fat,  brown,  pungent,  post-prandial  cigar.  Here 
was  a  man  who  had  earned  his  hour  of  repose;  and 
he  enjoyed  it  to  the  full.  In  his  low,  deep,  com 
fortable  arm-chair,  you  did  not  notice  how  stout  he 
was  or  how  stooped.  Like  the  master  he  delighted 
to  honour,  he  was  "no  poppet  to  embrace";  nor  was 
that  other  illuminating  touch  of  "elvishness"  want- 


CHILD   OF   THE   BALLADS       171 

ing.  In  his  chair  he  looked  much  younger  than  when 
he  stood  up.  Between  figure  and  face  there  was  a 
strange  want  of  harmony.  The  figure  was  the  figure 
of  Sancho  Panza;  but  the  face  was  stamped  with 
the  asceticism  of  the  scholar.  The  keen  eye  went 
well  with  a  straight,  keen  nose;  and  the  profile  was 
a  singular  union  of  strength  and  fine  line.  Without 
a  sign  of  beard,  and  yet  not  looking  shaven,  his 
"hue"  was  a  healthy  reddish  brown,  suggestive  of 
the  open  air.  At  the  same  time  it  was  without  a 
single  line  or  wrinkle,  and  it  was  neither  puffy  nor 
fat,  nor  fallen  in.  His  head  looked  small  and  round, 
and  was  covered  with  thick,  dry-looking,  chestnut 
hair,  curling  closely  and  not  showing  a  single  thread 
of  grey.  Altogether  it  was  a  face  which  once  seen 
could  not  be  forgotten.  The  strangest  thing  was  the 
absence  of  any  sign  of  advancing  years.  One  knew 
that  he  could  not  be  young;  the  bent  form,  the 
crinkled,  gouty  boots  denoted  age;  but  neither  in 
the  face  nor  in  the  alert  manner,  nor  in  the  un 
forced  laugh,  nor  in  the  brilliant  talk  was  there  the 
slightest  symptom  of  decaying  power.  It  was  the 
same  when  I  saw  him  last  not  very  long  before  his 
death.  On  a  Vdge  de  son  c&ur;  and,  to  the  end,  his 
was  the  heart  of  a  boy. 

It  is  impossible  for  any  one  but  a  Boswell  to  give 
more  than  a  general  idea  of  the  conversation  of  a 


172     LIFE   OF  A  LITTLE   COLLEGE 

distinguished  man.  Like  all  good  talk,  Child's  was 
that  day  freely  discursive.  Praed  would  have  en 
joyed  him,  for,  like  the  famous  vicar,  — 

His  conversation  was  a  stream 
With  rapid  turns  from  rocks  to  roses. 

Only  the  faithful  reporter  is  bound  to  add  that  there 
were  no  rocks  of  offence  or  stones  of  stumbling  in 
Child's;  it  was  rather  "roses,  roses  all  the  way." 
The  other  guest  had  been  a  trooper  in  that  Michigan 
cavalry  that  followed  the  raider  Morgan  so  long  and 
so  hard,  and  his  face  bore  the  marks  of  the  hardships 
and  privations  he  had  undergone  during  the  nation's 
great  struggle  for  life.  Mention  of  this  led  Child 
to  speak  of  war  ballads  which  he  had  written  for  the 
Harvard  men  who  had  gone  to  the  front.  He  did 
this  chiefly,  it  would  seem,  to  bring  in  the  adverse 
criticism  of  a  friend  who  pronounced  them  "too 

d literary";  and  Child  repeated  the  phrase  with 

comic  relish  in  its  mild  impropriety;  and  then  quoted 
some  lilt  of  his  friend's  composition  about  "pork 
and  beans  and  hard  tack,"  as  rougher  and  much 
more  to  the  purpose.  This  led  him  naturally  to  speak 
of  his  own  monumental  edition  of  the  English  and 
Scotch  ballads.  He  said  that  he  had  been  encouraged 
to  undertake  it  by  "my  friend  Norton,"  who  had 
asked  him,  "Why  don't  you  begin?  You  may 


CHILD   OF   THE   BALLADS       173 

die  before  you  finish  it."  This  is  only  one  more 
bit  of  evidence  proving  what  the  world  owes  to 
the  man  whom  John  Ruskin  was  also  proud  to 
call  friend  and  helper.  It  is  comforting  to  think 
that  Child  did  complete  his  monument  before  he 
died. 

About  this  time  a  well-known  American  writer 
had  committed  himself  publicly  to  the  opinion  that 
Scott's  novels  should  not  be  put  into  the  hands  of 
innocent  youth  without  a  warning  against  their 
dangerous  anti-democratic  tendency.  And  the  dic 
tum  had  occasioned  some  remark.  Child  did  not 
hold  by  it,  and  said,  by  way  of  explanation  merely, 
that  this  same  critic  had  asked  him  in  astonishment, 
"Can  you  read  Scott?"  "There  is  na  more  to 
seie." 

Throughout  the  conversation  there  was  not  a  trace 
of  what  Newman  calls  " donnishness,"  that  certain 
condescension  in  learned  persons  which  made  Thack 
eray  find  a  place  for  Crump,  the  Oxford  tutor,  in 
his  snobbium  gatherum,  or  of  those  peculiarities  which 
make  the  tales  of  Jowett's  behaviour  at  his  own 
table  such  amusing  reading.  There  was  learning, 
but  it  came  into  view  only  for  a  minute,  and  it 
was  worn  as  lightly  as  a  flower,  one  of  his  own 
roses.  On  the  other  hand,  there  was  none  of  that 
over-plain  effort  on  the  part  of  a  senior  to  outdo  the 


174    LIFE  OF  A  LITTLE   COLLEGE 

vivacity  of  younger  men,  nor  did  he  seem  more  than 
our  own  age.  As  I  have  said,  once  or  twice  already, 
Child  was  never  old.  Hearty  as  his  laugh  was  and 
merry  as  his  anecdote,  they  never  suggested  the 
least  diminution  of  his  dignity  nor  invited  the  least 
liberty.  His  fun  was  shot  through  with  sadness. 
I  remember  him  saying  suddenly,  and  with  feeling, 
it  seemed  to  me,  "What  do  you  suppose  an  agnostic 
does  instead  of  teaching  his  little  boy  his  prayers?  I 
wonder  what  pleasure  he  has  like  hearing  his  son  say 
his  prayers."  But  the  mood  soon  passed  and  he 
talked  of  other  things.  It  was  this  same  afternoon 
that  he  discussed  Hood,  and  dilated  on  the  charm  of 
his  lyric  snatches,  their  pure  grace,  tenderness,  and 
unforced  music,  as  well  as  on  the  surprising  clever 
ness  of  his  jolly,  verbal  acrobatics,  his  crackling 
strings  of  puns,  his  most  ingenious  yet  convincing 
rhymes. 

I  am  afraid  that  we  out-stayed  the  set  conventional 
limit  and  must  have  punished  our  host  more  or  less 
for  his  hospitality;  but,  if  it  were  so,  no  sign  or  hint, 
or  word  or  look  betrayed  him.  From  our  point  of 
view,  we  came  away  too  soon;  and  on  stepping  out 
among  the  lengthening  shadows  of  the  great  Cam 
bridge  elms,  we  felt  somehow  that  we  had  left  all 
the  brightness  behind.  That  was  a  day  to  be  marked 
with  a  white  stone. 


CHILD   OF   THE   BALLADS       175 

After  such  a  meeting  several  things  were  easier  to 
understand;  for  instance,  the  tone  of  dedications  in 
not  a  few  works  of  the  best  American  scholars. 
Such  phrases  as,  "teacher  and  friend,"  "affection 
ately  dedicated,"  "gratitude  and  affection,"  took  on 
a  new  meaning  now  that  I  had  seen  the  man  to  whom 
they  referred  and  knew  that  the  phrases  came  from 
men  who  did  not  wear  their  heart  on  their  sleeve. 
I  understood  how  it  was  accounted  a  triumph  of  in 
nocent  diplomacy  to  lure  him  away  from  his  books 
and  his  roses  to  a  little  gathering  of  which  he  would 
be  the  life  and  honoured  centre.  I  do  not  think  he 
ever  understood  in  any  adequate  way  the  real  atti 
tude  of  the  younger  generation  toward  him.  Never 
man  deserved  less  the  injunction,  not  to  think  too 
highly  of  himself. 

The  last  time  I  saw  him  was  in  the  September  of 
'93.  It  was  again  at  a  most  delightful  luncheon  at 
his  own  house;  this  time  he  was  not  alone.  Besides 
the  family  a  Harvard  professor  or  two  had  been  in 
vited,  and  during  the  course  of  the  informal  meal 
room  was  made  for  a  well-known  translator  who 
happened  to  drop  in.  There  was  no  constraint 
and  plenty  of  sparkling  talk.  The  host  took  part 
all  round,  his  keen  eyes  noting  any  lack  in  plate  or 
glass.  On  hearing  it  gravely  contended  that  mo 
narchical  institutions  were  demonstrably  superior  to 


176     LIFE  OF  A  LITTLE   COLLEGE 

republican  in  that  the  British-American  professor 
has  a  summer  vacation  of  four  clear  months,  instead 
of  three,  he  shot  the  question  across  the  table,  "Can 
you  grow  roses  in  Nova  Scotia?"  "Is  the  climate 
suitable? "  —  and  learning  that  all  conditions  were 
favourable,  he  proclaimed,  with  comic  solemnity,  his 
intention  of  getting  a  place  in  the  land  of  the  Blue- 
noses  if  —  they  would  have  him.  It  was  roses  to 
the  last.  He  was  one  of  those  who  weave  them  into 
the  grey  homely  fabric  of  our  lives. 

After  luncheon,  the  party  broke  up  into  small 
groups  and  wandered  about  the  place.  Somehow  or 
other  I  found  myself  alone  with  the  man  I  respected 
so;  and  stood  by  him  in  an  open  French  window  as 
he  luxuriated  in  one  of  his  Gargantuan  cigars,  and 
talked.  It  was  our  last  talk,  neither  of  us  knowing 
that  it  was  so  decreed. 

Thinking  it  over  now,  I  see  that  nothing  could 
have  been  fitter  for  a  last  meeting  than  what  he  said 
and  the  way  he  said  it.  The  scholar  of  world- wide 
reputation,  the  man  of  years,  each  one  with  its  full 
harvest  of  experience,  speaking  freely  of  the  deepest 
things  of  life,  as  a  father  might  to  a  son,  —  what 
could  be  more  fitting,  or  better  worth  treasuring  as 
an  inspiration? 

A  great  poet  has  suggested  how  the  life  of  the  good 
man  is  affected  by  "that  best  portion  of  it,  — 


CHILD   OF   THE   BALLADS       177 

His  little  nameless  unremembered  acts 
Of  kindness  and  of  love, — " 

The  good  man  himself  does  not  remember,  but  some 
of  those  to  whom  he  showed  kindness  are  not  so  for 
getful;  and  on  their  lives,  too,  such  acts  exert  "no 
slight  or  trivial  influence." 


THE   BEST   SEA-STORY   EVER 
WRITTEN 


THE  BEST  SEA-STORY   EVER 
WRITTEN 

ANY  one  who  undertakes  to  reverse  some  judg 
ment  in  history  or  criticism,  or  to  set  the  public 
right  regarding  some  neglected  man  or  work,  becomes 
at  once  an  object  of  suspicion.  Nine  times  out  of  ten 
he  is  called  a  literary  snob  for  his  pains,  or  a  prig  who 
presumes  to  teach  his  betters,  or  a  "phrase-monger," 
or  a  "  young  Osric,"  or  something  equally  soul-sub 
duing.  Besides,  the  burden  of  proof  lies  heavy  upon 
him.  He  preaches  to  a  sleeping  congregation.  The 
good  public  has  returned  its  verdict  upon  the  case, 
and  is  slow  to  review  the  evidence  in  favour  of  the 
accused,  or,  having  done  so,  to  confess  itself  in  the 
wrong.  Still,  difficult  as  the  work  of  rehabilitation 
always  is,  there  are  cheering  instances  of  its  complete 
success;  notably,  the  rescue  of  the  Elizabethan  drama 
tists  by  Lamb  and  Hazlitt  and  Leigh  Hunt.  Nor  in 
such  a  matter  is  the  will  always  free.  As  Heine  says, 
ideas  take  possession  of  us  and  force  us  into  the  arena, 
there  to  fight  for  them.  There  is  also  the  possibility 
of  triumph  to  steel  the  raw  recruit  against  all  dangers. 
Though  the  world  at  large  may  not  care,  the  judicious 

181 


1 82     LIFE   OF  A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

few  may  be  glad  of  new  light,  and  may  feel  satisfac 
tion  in  seeing  even  tardy  justice  meted  out  to  real 
merit.  In  my  poor  opinion  much  less  than  justice 
has  been  done  to  an  American  writer,  whose  achieve 
ment  is  so  considerable  that  it  is  hard  to  account  for 
the  neglect  into  which  he  has  fallen. 

This  writer  is  Herman  Melville,  who  died  in  New 
York  in  the  autumn  of  1891,  aged  eighty- three.  That 
his  death  excited  little  attention  is  in  consonance  with 
the  popular  apathy  toward  him  and  his  work.  The 
Civil  War  marks  a  dividing-line  in  his  literary  pro 
duction  as  well  as  in  his  life.  His  best  work  belongs 
to  the  ante-bellum  days,  and  is  cut  off  in  taste  and 
sympathy  from  the  distinctive  literary  fashions  of  the 
present  tune.  To  find  how  complete  neglect  is,  one 
has  only  to  put  question  to  the  most  cultivated  and 
patriotic  Americans  North  or  South,  East  or  West, 
even  professed  specialists  in  the  nativist  literature, 
and  it  will  be  long  before  the  Melville  enthusiast 
meets  either  sympathy  or  understanding.  The  pres 
ent  writer  made  his  first  acquaintance  with  "Moby 
Dick"  in  the  dim,  dusty  Mechanics'  Institute  Library 
(opened  once  a  week  by  the  old  doctor)  of  an  obscure 
Canadian  village,  nearly  twenty  years  ago;  and  since 
that  time  he  has  seen  only  one  copy  of  the  book  ex 
posed  for  sale,  and  met  only  one  person  (and  that 
not  an  American)  who  had  read  it.  Though  Kingsley 


THE  BEST   SEA-STORY          183 

has  a  good  word  for  Melville,  the  only  place  where 
real  appreciation  of  him  is  to  be  found  of  recent  years 
is  in  one  of  Mr.  Clark  Russell's  dedications.  There 
occurs  the  phrase  which  gives  this  paper  its  title. 
Whoever  takes  the  trouble  to  read  this  unique  and 
original  book  will  concede  that  Mr.  Russell  knows 
whereof  he  affirms. 

Melville  is  a  man  of  one  book,  and  this  fact  ac 
counts  possibly  for  much  of  his  unpopularity.  The 
marked  inferiority  of  his  work  after  the  war,  as  well 
as  changes  in  literary  fashion,  would  drag  the  rest 
down  with  it.  Nor  are  his  earliest  works,  embodying 
personal  experience  like  "Redburn"  and  "White 
Jacket,"  quite  worthy  of  the  pen  which  wrote  "Moby 
Dick."  "Omoo"  and  "Typee"  are  little  more  than 
sketches,  legitimately  idealized,  of  his  own  adventures 
in  the  Marquesas.  They  are  notable  works  in  that 
they  are  the  first  to  reveal  to  civilized  people  the 
charm  of  life  in  the  islands  of  the  Pacific,  the  charm 
which  is  so  potent  in  "Vailima  Letters"  and  "The 
Beach  of  Falesa."  Again,  the  boundless  archipelagos 
of  Oceanica  furnish  the  scenes  of  "Mardi,"  his  curi 
ous  political  satire.  This  contains  a  prophecy  of  the 
war,  and  a  fine  example  of  obsolete  oratory  in  the 
speech  of  the  great  chief  Alanno  from  Hio-Hio.  The 
prologue  in  a  whale-ship  and  the  voyage  in  an  open 
boat  are,  perhaps,  the  most  interesting  parts.  None 


1 84    LIFE  OF  A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

of  his  books  are  without  distinct  and  peculiar  excel 
lences,  but  nearly  all  have  some  fatal  fault.  Melville's 
seems  a  case  of  arrested  literary  development.  The 
power  and  promise  of  power  in  his  best  work  are  al 
most  unbounded;  but  he  either  did  not  care  to  fol 
low  them  up  or  he  had  worked  out  all  his  rifts  of  ore. 
The  last  years  of  his  life  he  spent  as  a  recluse. 

His  life  fitted  him  to  write  his  one  book.  The  rep 
resentative  of  a  good  old  Scottish  name,  his  portrait 
shows  distinctively  Scottish  traits.  The  head  is  the 
sort  that  goes  naturally  with  a  tall,  powerful  figure. 
The  forehead  is  broad  and  square;  the  hair  is  abun 
dant;  the  full  beard  masks  the  mouth  and  chin;  the 
general  aspect  is  of  great  but  disciplined  strength. 
The  eyes  are  level  and  determined;  they  have  specu 
lation  in  them.  Nor  does  his  work  belie  his  blood. 
It  shows  the  natural  bent  of  the  Scot  toward  meta 
physics;  and  this  though tfulness  is  one  pervading 
quality  of  Melville's  books.  In  the  second  place,  his 
family  had  been  so  long  established  in  the  country 
(his  grandfather  was  a  member  of  the  "Boston  Tea- 
Party")  that  he  secured  the  benefits  of  education 
and  inherited  culture:  and  this  enlightenment  was  in 
dispensable  in  enabling  him  to  perceive  the  literary 
"values"  of  the  strange  men,  strange  scenes,  and 
strange  events  amongst  which  he  was  thrown.  And 
then  he  had  the  love  of  adventure  which  drove  him 


THE  BEST   SEA-STORY          185 

forth  to  gather  his  material  at  the  ends  of  the  earth. 
He  made  two  voyages;  first  as  a  green  hand  of  eight 
een  in  one  of  the  old  clipper  packets  to  Liverpool  and 
back;  and  next,  as  a  young  man  of  twenty- three,  in  a 
whaler.  The  latter  was  sufficiently  adventurous. 
Wearying  of  sea-life,  he  deserted  on  one  of  the  Mar 
quesas  Islands,  and  came  near  being  killed  and  eaten 
by  cannibal  natives  who  kept  him  prisoner  for  four 
months.  At  last  he  escaped,  and  worked  his  way 
home  on  a  United  States  man-o'-war.  This  adventure 
lasted  four  years  and  he  went  no  more  to  sea. 

After  his  marriage,  he  lived  at  Pittsfield  for  thirteen 
years,  in  close  intimacy  with  Hawthorne,  to  whom  he 
dedicated  his  chief  work.  My  copy  shows  that  it  was 
written  as  early  as  1851,  but  the  title-page  is  dated 
exactly  twenty  years  later.  It  shows  as  its  three 
chief  elements  this  Scottish  thoughtfulness,  the  love 
of  literature,  and  the  love  of  adventure. 

When  Mr.  Clark  Russell  singles  out  "Moby  Dick" 
for  such  high  praise  as  he  bestows  upon  it,  we  think 
at  once  of  other  sea-stories,  —  his  own,  Marryat's, 
Smollett's,  perhaps,  and  such  books  as  Dana's  "Two 
Years  before  the  Mast."  But  the  last  is  a  plain 
record  of  fact;  in  Smollett's  tales,  sea-life  is  only  part 
of  one  great  round  of  adventure;  in  Mr.  Russell's 
mercantile  marine,  there  is  generally  the  romantic 
interest  of  the  way  of  a  man  with  a  maid;  and  in 


1 86     LIFE   OF  A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

Marryat's  the  rise  of  a  naval  officer  through  various 
ranks  plus  a  love-story,  or  plenty  of  fun,  fighting, 
and  prize-money.  From  all  these  advantages  Mel 
ville  not  only  cuts  himself  off,  but  seems  to  heap  all 
sorts  of  obstacles  in  his  self-appointed  path.  Great 
are  the  prejudices  to  be  overcome;  but  he  triumphs 
over  all.  Whalers  are  commonly  regarded  as  a  sort 
of  sea-scavengers.  He  convinces  you  that  their  busi 
ness  is  poetic;  and  that  they  are  the  finest  fellows 
afloat.  He  dispenses  with  a  love-story  altogether; 
there  is  hardly  a  flutter  of  a  petticoat  from  chapter 
first  to  last.  Kfhe  book  is  not  a  record  of  fact;  but  of 
fact  idealized,  which  supplies  the  frame  for  a  terrible 
duel  to  the  death  between  a  mad  whaling-captain  and 
a  miraculous  white  sperm  whale.  It  is  not  a  love- 
story,  but  a  story  of  undying  hate. 

In  no  other  tale  is  one  so  completely  detached  from 
the  land,  even  from  the  very  suggestion  of  land. 
Though  Nantucket  and  New  Bedford  must  be  men 
tioned,  only  their  nautical  aspects  are  touched  on; 
they  are  but  the  steps  of  the  saddle-block  from  which 
the  mariner  vaults  upon  the  back  of  his  sea-horse. 
The  strange  ship  Pequod  is  the  theatre  of  all  the  strange 
adventures.  For  ever  off  soundings,  she  shows  but 
as  a  central  speck  in  a  wide  circle  of  blue  or  stormy 
sea;  and  yet  a  speck  crammed  full  of  human  passions, 
the  world  itself  in  little.  Comparison  brings  out  only 


THE   BEST   SEA-STORY          187 

more  strongly  the  unique  character  of  the  book. 
Whaling  is  the  most  peculiar  business  done  by  man 
upon  the  deep  waters.  A  warship  is  but  a  mobile  fort 
or  battery;  a  merchantman  is  but  a  floating  shop 
or  warehouse;  fishing  is  devoid  of  a"ny  but  the  ordi 
nary  perils  of  navigation;  but  sperm- whaling,  accord 
ing  to  Melville,  is  the  most  exciting  and  dangerous 
kind  of  big-game  hunting.  One  part  of  the  author's 
triumph  consists  in  having  made  the  complicated 
operations  of  this  strange  pursuit  perfectly  familiar 
to  the  reader;  and  that  not  in  any  dull,  pedantic 
fashion,  but  touched  with  the  imagination,  the  hu 
mour,  the  fancy,  the  reflection  of  a  poet.  His  intimate 
knowledge  of  his  subject  and  his  intense  interest  in 
it  make  the  whaler's  life  in  all  its  details  not  only 
comprehensible  but  fascinating. 

A  bare  outline  of  the  story,  though  it  cannot  suggest 
its  peculiar  charm,  may  arouse  a  desire  to  know  more 
about  it.  The  book  takes  its  name  from  a  monstrous, 
invincible,  sperm  whale  of  diabolical  strength  and 
malice.  In  an  encounter  with  this  leviathan,  Ahab, 
the  captain  of  a  Nantucket  whaler,  has  had  his  leg 
torn  off.  The  long  illness  which  ensues  drives  him 
mad ;  and  his  one  thought  upon  recovery  is  vengeance 
upon  the  creature  that  has  mutilated  him.  He  gets 
command  of  the  Pequod,  concealing  his  purpose  with 
the  cunning  of  insanity  until  the  fitting  moment  comes: 


1 88     LIFE  OF  A  LITTLE  COLLEGE 

then  he  swears  the  whole  crew  into  his  fatal  vendetta. 
From  this  point  on,  the  mad  captain  bears  down  all 
opposition,  imposes  his  own  iron  will  upon  the  ship's 
company,  and  affects  them  with  like  heat,  until  they 
are  as  one  keen  weapon  fitted  to  his  hand  and  to  his 
purpose.  In  spite  of  all  difficulties,  in  spite  of  all 
signs  and  portents  and  warnings,  human  and  divine, 
he  drives  on  to  certain  destruction.  Everything 
conduces  to  one  end,  a  three  days'  battle  with  the 
monster,  which  staves  in  and  sinks  the  ship,  like  the 
ill-fated  Essex. 

For  a  tale  of  such  length,  "Moby  Dick"  is  undoubt 
edly  well  constructed.  Possibly  the  "Town-Ho's 
Story,"  interesting  as  it  is,  somewhat  checks  the  prog 
ress  of  the  plot;  but  by  the  time  the  reader  reaches 
this  point,  he  is  infected  with  the  leisurely,  trade-wind, 
whaling  atmosphere,  and  has  no  desire  to  proceed 
faster  than  at  the  Pequod's  own  cruising  rate.  Pos 
sibly  the  book  might  be  shortened  by  excision,  but 
when  one  looks  over  the  chapters  it  is  hard  to  decide 
which  to  sacrifice.  The  interest  begins  with  the  quaint 
words  of  the  opening  sentence,  "Call  me  Ishmael"; 
and  never  slackens  for  at  least  a  hundred  pages. 
IshmaePs  reasons  for  going  to  sea,  his  sudden  friend 
ship  with  Queequeg,  the  Fijian  harpooneer,  Father 
Mapple's  sermon  on  Jonah,  in  the  seamen's  bethel, 
Queequeg's  rescue  of  the  country  bumpkin  on  the 


THE   BEST   SEA-STORY          189 

way  to  Nantucket,  Queequeg's  Ramadan,  the  descrip 
tion  of  the  ship  Pequod  and  her  two  owners,  Elijah's 
warning,  getting  under  way,  and  dropping  the  pilot, 
make  up  an  introduction  of  great  variety  and  pictur- 
esqueness.  The  second  part  deals  with  all  the  par 
ticulars  of  the  various  operations  in  whaling  from 
manning  the  mastheads  and  lowering  the  boats  to 
trying  out  the  blubber  and  cleaning  up  the  ship, 
when  all  the  oil  is  barrelled.  In  this  part  Ahab,  who 
has  been  invisible  in  the  retirement  of  his  cabin, 
comes  on  deck  and  in  various  scenes  different  sides 
of  his  vehement,  iron-willed,  yet  pathetic  nature,  are 
made  intelligible.  Here  also  is  much  learning  to  be 
found,  and  here,  if  anywhere,  the  story  dawdles.  The 
last  part  deals  with  the  fatal  three  days'  chase,  the 
death  of  Ahab,  and  the  escape  of  the  White  Whale. 

One  striking  peculiarity  of  the  book  is  its  Ameri 
canism  —  a  word  which  needs  definition.  The  theme 
and  style  are  peculiar  to  this  country.  Nowhere  but 
in  America  could  such  a  theme  have  been  treated  in 
such  a  style.  \Vhaling  is  peculiarly  an  American  in 
dustry;  and  of  all  whalemen,  the  Nantucketers  were 
the  keenest,  the  most  daring,  and  the  most  successful. 
Now,  though  there  are  still  whalers  to  be  found  in  the 
New  Bedford  slips,  and  interesting  as  it  is  to  clamber 
about  them  and  hear  the  unconscious  confirmation  of 
all  Melville's  details  from  the  lips  of  some  old  har- 


190     LIFE   OF  A  LITTLE   COLLEGE 

pooneer  or  boat-header,  the  industry  is  almost  extinct. 
The  discovery  of  petroleum  did  for  it.  Perhaps  Mel 
ville  went  to  sea  for  no  other  purpose  than  to  con 
struct  the  monument  of  whaling  in  this  unique  book. 
Not  in  his  subject  alone  but  in  his  style  is  Melville 
distinctly  American.  It  is  large  in  idea,  expansive; 
it  has  an  Elizabethan  force  and  freshness  and  swing, 
and  is,  perhaps,  more  rich  in  figures  than  any  style 
but  Emerson's.  It  has  the  picturesqueness  of  the 
New  World,  and,  above  all,  a  free-flowing  humour, 
which  is  the  distinct  cachet  of  American  literature. 
No  one  would  contend  that  it  is  a  perfect  style;  some 
mannerisms  become  tedious,  like  the  constant  moral 
turn,  and  the  curiously  coined  adverbs  placed  before 
the  verb.  Occasionally  there  is  more  than  a  hint  of 
bombast,  as  indeed  might  be  expected;  but,  upon  the 
whole,  it  is  an  extraordinary  style,  rich,  clear,  vivid, 
original.  It  shows  reading  and  is  full  of  thought  and 
allusion;  but  its  chief  charm  is  its  freedom  from  all 
scholastic  rules  and  conventions.  Melville  is  a  Walt 
Whitman  of  prose. 

Like  Browning  he  has  a  dialect  of  his  own.  The 
poet  of  "The  Ring  and  the  Book"  translates  the  dif 
ferent  emotions  and  thoughts  and  possible  words  of 
pope,  jurist,  murderer,  victim,  into  one  level  uniform 
Browningese;  reduces  them  to  a  common  denomi 
nator,  in  a  way  of  speaking,  and  Melville  gives  us  not 


THE   BEST   SEA-STORY          191 

the  actual  words  of  American  whalemen,  but  what 
they  would  say  under  the  imagined  conditions,  trans 
lated  into  one  consistent,  though  various  Melvillesque 
manner  of  speech.  The  life  he  deals  with  belongs 
already  to  the  legendary  past,  and  he  has  us  com 
pletely  at  his  mercy.  He  is  completely  successful  in 
creating  his  "atmosphere."  Granted  the  conditions, 
the  men  and  their  words,  emotions,  and  actions  are 
all  consistent.  One  powerful  scene  takes  place  on  the 
quarter-deck  of  the  Pequod  one  evening,  when,  all 
hands  mustered  aft,  the  Captain  Ahab  tells  of  the 
White  Whale,  and  offers  a  doubloon  to  the  first  man 
who  "raises"  him:  — 

"Captain  Ahab,"  said  Tashtego,  "that  White  Whale 
must  be  the  same  that  some  call  Moby  Dick." 

"Moby  Dick?"  shouted  Ahab.  "Do  ye  know  the 
White  Whale  then,  Tash?" 

"Does  he  fan-tail  a  little  curious,  sir,  before  he  goes 
down?"  said  the  Gay-Header,  deliberately. 

"And  has  he  a  curious  spout,  too,"  said  Daggoo, 
"very  bushy,  even  for  a  parmacetty,  and  mighty  quick, 
Captain  Ahab?" 

"And  he  have  one,  two,  tree  —  oh,  good  many  iron 
in  him  hide,  too,  Captain,"  cried  Queequeg,  disjointedly, 
"all  twisktee  be-twisk,  like  him  —  him"  —  faltering  hard 
for  a  word,  and  screwing'  his  hand  round  and  round  as 
though  uncorking  a  bottle  —  "like  him  —  him  — " 

"Corkscrew!"  cried  Ahab;  "aye,  Queequeg,  the  har 
poons  lie  all  twisted  and  wrenched  in  him;  aye,  Daggoo, 
his  spout  is  a  big  one,  like  a  whole  shock  of  wheat,  and 


i92     LIFE  OF  A  LITTLE  COLLEGE 

white  as  a  pile  of  our  Nantucket  wool  after  the  great 
annual  sheep-shearing;  aye,  Tashtego,  and  he  fan-tails 
like  a  split  jib  in  a  squall" 

The  first  mate,  Starbuck,  asks  him: — 

"It  was  not  Moby  Dick  that  took  off  thy  leg?" 
"Who  told  thee  that?"  cried  Ahab;  then  pausing, 
"Aye,  Starbuck;  aye,  my  hearties  all  round,  it  was 
Moby  Dick  that  dismasted  me,  Moby  Dick  that  brought 
me  to  this  dead  stump  I  stand  on  now.  Aye,  aye," 
he  shouted  with  a  terrific,  loud,  animal  sob,  like  that 
of  a  heart-stricken  moose;  "aye,  aye!  it  was  that  ac 
cursed  White  Whale  that  razeed  me;  made  a  poor  peg 
ging  lubber  of  me  for  ever  and  a  day!" 

Starbuck  alone  attempts  to  withstand  him. 

"Vengeance  on  a  dumb  brute!"  cried  Starbuck, 
"that  simply  smote  thee  from  the  blindest  instinct! 
Madness;  to  be  enraged  with  a  dumb  thing,  Captain 
Ahab,  seems  blasphemous." 

"Hark  ye,  yet  again, —  the  little  lower  layer.  All  vis 
ible  objects,  man,  are  but  as  pasteboard  masks.  But 
in  each  event  —  in  the  living  act,  the  undoubted  deed  — 
there,  some  unknown  but  still  reasoning  thing  puts  forth 
the  mouldings  of  its  features  from  behind  the  unreasoning 
mask.  If  man  will  strike,  strike  through  the  mask!" 

Then  follows  the  wild  ceremony  of  drinking  round 
the  capstan-head  from  the  harpoon-sockets  to  con 
firm  Ahab's  curse:  "Death  to  Moby  Dick.  God  hunt 
us  all,  if  we  do  not  hunt  Moby  Dick  to  the  death!" 
The  intermezzo  of  the  various  sailors  on  the  fore- 


THE   BEST   SEA-STORY          193 

castle  which  follows  until  the  squall  strikes  the  ship 
is  one  of  the  most  suggestive  passages  in  all  the  liter 
ature  of  the  sea.  Under  the  influence  of  Ahab's  can, 
the  men  are  dancing  on  the  forecastle.  The  old  Manx 
sailor  says:  — 

"I  wonder  whether  those  jolly  lads  bethink  them  of 
what  they  are  dancing  over.  I'll  dance  over  your  grave, 
I  will, —  that 's  the  bitterest  threat  of  your  night-women, 
that  beat  head-winds  round  corners.  O,  Christ!  to  think 
of  the  green  navies  and  the  green-skulled  crews." 

Where  every  page,  almost  every  paragraph,  has 
its  quaint  or  telling  phrase,  or  thought,  or  suggested 
picture,  it  is  hard  to  make  a  selection;  and  even  the 
choicest  morsels  give  you  no  idea  of  the  richness  of 
the  feast.  Melville's  humour  has  been  mentioned;  it 
is  a  constant  quantity.  Perhaps  the  statement  of  his 
determination  after  the  adventure  of  the  first  lowering 
is  as  good  an  example  as  any:  — 

Here,  then,  from  three  impartial  witnesses,  I  had  a 
deliberate  statement  of  the  case.  Considering,  there 
fore,  that  squalls  and  capsizings  in  the  water,  and  con 
sequent  bivouacks  in  the  deep,  were  matters  of  common 
occurrence  in  this  kind  of  life;  considering  that  at  the 
superlatively  critical  moment  of  going  on  to  the  whale 
I  must  resign  my  life  into  the  hands  of  him  who  steered 
the  boat  —  oftentimes  a  fellow  who  at  that  very  moment 
is  in  his  impetuousness  upon  the  point  of  scuttling  the 
craft  with  his  own  frantic  stampings;  considering  that 
the  particular  disaster  to  our  own  particular  boat  was 


i94     LIFE   OF  A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

chiefly  to  be  imputed  to  Starbuck's  driving  on  to  his 
whale,  almost  in  the  teeth  of  a  squall,  and  considering 
that  Starbuck,  notwithstanding,  was  famous  for  his 
great  needfulness  in  the  fishery;  considering  that  I  be 
longed  to  this  uncommonly  prudent  Starbuck's  boat; 
and  finally  considering  in  what  a  devil's  chase  I  was  im 
plicated,  touching  the  White  Whale:  taking  all  things 
together,  I  say,  I  thought  I  might  as  well  go  below  and 
make  a  rough  draft  of  my  will. 

"Queequeg,"  said  I,  "come  along  and  you  shall  be 
my  lawyer,  executor,  and  legatee." 

The  humour  has  the  usual  tinge  of  Northern  mel 
ancholy,  and  sometimes  a  touch  of  Rabelais.  The  ex 
hortations  of  Stubb  to  his  boat's  crew,  on  different 
occasions,  or  such  chapters  as  " Queen  Mab,"  "The 
Cassock,"  "Leg  and  Arm,"  "Stubb's  Supper,"  are 
good  examples  of  his  peculiar  style. 

But,  after  all,  his  chief  excellence  is  bringing  to  the 
landsman  the  very  salt  of  the  sea-breeze,  while  to  one 
who  has  long  known  the  ocean,  he  is  as  one  praising 
to  the  lover  the  chiefest  beauties  of  the  Beloved. 
The  magic  of  the  ship  and  the  mystery  of  the  sea  are 
put  into  words  that  form  pictures  for  the  dullest  eyes. 
The  chapter,  "The  Spirit  Spout,"  contains  these  two 
aquarelles  of  the  moonlit  sea  and  the  speeding  ship 
side  by  side:  — 

It  was  while  gliding  through  these  latter  waters  that 
one  serene  and  moonlight  night,  when  all  the  waves 
rolled  by  like  scrolls  of  silver;  and  by  their  soft,  suffusing 


THE   BEST   SEA-STORY          195 

seethings  all  things  made  what  seemed  a  silvery  silence, 
not  a  solitude;  on  such  a  silent  night  a  silvery  jet  was 
seen  far  in  advance  of  the  white  bubbles  at  the  bow. 
Lit  up  by  the  moon  it  looked  celestial;  seemed  some 
plumed  and  glittering  god  uprising  from  the  sea.  .  .  . 

Walking  the  deck,  with  quick,  side-lunging  strides, 
Ahab  commanded  the  t 'gallant  sails  and  royals  to  be 
set,  and  every  stunsail  spread.  The  best  man  in  the 
ship  must  take  the  helm.  Then,  with  every  masthead 
manned,  the  piled-up  craft  rolled  down  before  the  wind. 
The  strange,  upheaving,  lifting  tendency  of  the  taflrail 
breeze  filling  the  hollows  of  so  many  sails  made  the 
buoyant,  hovering  deck  to  feel  like  air  beneath  the  feet. 

In  the  chapter  called  "The  Needle/'  ship  and  sea 
and  sky  are  blended  in  one  unforgettable  whole:  — 

Next  morning  the  not-yet-subsided  sea  rolled  in  long 
slow  billows  of  mighty  bulk,  and  striving  in  the  Pequod's 
gurgling  track,  pushed  her  on  like  giants'  palms  out 
spread.  The  strong,  unstaggering  breeze  abounded  so, 
that  sky  and  air  seemed  vast  outbellying  sails;  the  whole 
world  boomed  before  the  wind.  Muffled  in  the  full 
morning  light,  the  invisible  sun  was  only  known  by  the 
spread  intensity  of  his  place;  where  his  bayonet  rays 
moved  on  in  stacks.  Emblazonings,  as  of  crowned  Baby 
lonian  kings  and  queens,  reigned  over  everything.  The 
sea  was  a  crucible  of  molten  gold,  that  bubblingly  leaps 
with  light  and  heat. 

It  would  be  hard  to  find  five  consecutive  sentences 
anywhere  containing  such  pictures  and  such  vivid, 
pregnant,  bold  imagery:  but  this  book  is  made  up  of 
such  things. 


196     LIFE   OF   A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

The  hero  of  the  book  is,  after  all,  not  Captain 
Ahab,  but  his  triumphant  antagonist,  the  mystic  white 
monster  of  the  sea,  and  it  is  only  fitting  that  he  should 
come  for  a  moment,  at  least,  into  the  saga.  A  com 
plete  scientific  memoir  of  the  sperm  whale  as  known 
to  man  might  be  quarried  from  this  book,  for  Melville 
has  described  the  creature  from  his  birth  to  his  death, 
and  even  burial  in  the  oil  casks  and  the  ocean.  He 
has  described  him  living,  dead,  and  anatomized.  At 
least  one  such  description  is  in  place  here.  The  ap 
pearance  of  the  whale  on  the  second  day  of  the  fatal 
chase  is  by  "breaching,"  and  nothing  can  be  clearer 
than  Melville's  account  of  it:  — 

The  triumphant  halloo  of  thirty  buckskin  lungs  was 
heard,  as  —  much  nearer  to  the  ship  than  the  place  of 
the  imaginary  jet,  less  than  a  mile  ahead  —  Moby  Dick 
bodily  burst  into  view!  For  not  by  any  calm  and  indo 
lent  spoutings,  not  by  the  peaceable  gush  of  that  mystic 
fountain  in  his  head,  did  the  White  Whale  now  reveal 
his  vicinity;  but  by  the  far  more  wondrous  phenome 
non  of  breaching.  Rising  with  his  utmost  velocity  from 
the  farthest  depths,  the  Sperm  Whale  thus  booms  his 
entire  bulk  into  the  pure  element  of  air,  and  piling  up 
a  mountain  of  dazzling  foam,  shows  his  place  to  the  dis 
tance  of  seven  miles  and  more.  In  those  moments  the 
torn,  enraged  waves  he  shakes  off  seem  his  mane;  in 
some  cases  this  breaching  is  his  act  of  defiance. 

"There  she  breaches!  there  she  breaches!"  was  the 
cry,  as  in  his  immeasurable  bravadoes  the  White  Whale 
tossed  himself  salmon-like  to  heaven.  So  suddenly  seen 


THE   BEST   SEA-STORY          197 

in  the  blue  plain  of  the  sea,  and  relieved  against  the 
still  bluer  margin  of  the  sky,  the  spray  that  he  raised 
for  the  moment  intolerably  glittered  and  glared  like  a 
glacier;  and  stood  there  gradually  fading  and  fading 
away  from  its  first  sparkling  intensity  to  the  dim  misti 
ness  of  an  advancing  shower  in  a  vale. 

This  book  is  at  once  the  epic  and  the  encyclopaedia 
of  whaling.  It  is  a  monument  to  the  honour  of  an 
extinct  race  of  daring  seamen;  but  it  is  a  monument 
overgrown  with  the  lichen  of  neglect.  Those  who  will 
care  to  scrape  away  the  moss  may  be  few,  but  they 
will  have  their  reward.  To  the  class  of  gentleman- 
adventurer,  to  those  who  love  both  books  and  free 
life  under  the  wide  and  open  sky,  it  must  always  ap 
peal.  Melville  takes  rank  with  Borrow,  and  Jefferies, 
and  Thoreau,  and  Sir  Richard  Burton;  and  his  place 
in  this  brotherhood  of  notables  is  not  the  lowest. 
Those  who  feel  the  salt  in  their  blood  that  draws 
them  time  and  again  out  of  the  city  to  the  wharves 
and  the  ships,  almost  without  their  knowledge  or 
their  will;  those  who  feel  the  irresistible  lure  of  the 
spring,  away  from  the  cramped  and  noisy  town,  up 
the  long  road  to  the  peaceful  companionship  of  the 
awrakmg  earth  and  the  untainted  sky;  all  those  — 
and  they  are  many  —  will  find  in  Melville's  great 
book  an  ever  fresh  and  constant  charm. 


EVANGELINE   AND   THE   REAL 
ACADIANS 


EVANGELINE    AND    THE 
REAL    ACADIANS 


MAN  is  a  lover  and  maker  of  myths.  From  prej 
udice,  from  chivalry,  from  patriotism,  from 
mental  sloth,  from  sheer  inability  to  know  the  thing 
which  is,  and  tell  a  plain  tale,  neither  adding  nor 
abating  aught,  —  from  what  is  best  and  from  what 
is  worst  in  his  nature,  —  he  cherishes  legend,  fable, 
romance,  anything  but  the  simple  fact.  There  is  one 
hard  way  of  hitting  the  white,  and  there  are  ten 
thousand  easy  ways  of  roving  from  it.  The  clearest 
demonstration  of  sober,  lazy-pacing  history  can  never 
oust  a  pleasing  fiction  from  the  popular  belief.  Per 
haps  this  is  a  necessary  part  of  the  sorry  scheme  of 
things.  Perhaps  the  very  reason  for  the  existence  of 
the  actual  is  to  furnish  a  foundation  for  our  gorgeous 
dream  palaces,  wherein  we  spend  our  lives  charmed 
by  a  splendour  which  is  only  painted  air. 

Fact  and  fiction  are  almost  impossible  to  disen 
tangle  in  the  popular  conception  of  that  most  pathetic 
incident,  the  forcible  deportation  of  the  French  set- 

201 


202     LIFE   OF  A  LITTLE   COLLEGE 

tiers  from  Nova  Scotia  by  the  English  Government 
in  1755.  They  were  removed,  not  exterminated, — 
as  was  the  Huguenot  colony  in  Florida  by  the  Span 
iards.  They  were  a  mere  handful  compared  with  the 
three  hundred  thousand  French  citizens  dragooned 
out  of  France  upon  the  revocation  of  the  great  Henry's 
edict.  Theirs  was  not  so  hard  a  fate  as  that  of  the 
thirty  thousand  Tories  driven  into  vagabond  exile  at 
the  close  of  the  Revolutionary  War.  Nobody  pities 
the  Huguenots  or  the  Loyalists;  but  the  sufferings 
of  the  Acadians  are  blown  in  every  ear.  All  the 
world  knows  their  sad  story;  for  they  have  not  lacked 
their  sacred  poet.  When  the  Reverend  Mr.  Conolly 
told  the  story  of  the  two  parted  Acadian  lovers, 
and  Hawthorne  turned  the  material  over  to  Long 
fellow,  none  of  them  could  foresee  the  consequences 
of  their  action. 

The  immediate  outcome  was  "Evangeline,"  pub 
lished  in  1847.  It  became  at  once  popular;  now,  after 
more  than  sixty  years,  its  popularity  is  greater  than 
ever.  Within  twelve  years,  the  American  tourist  noted 
engravings  of  Faed's  Evangeline  in  the  print-shops  of 
Halifax.  The  poem  had  crossed  the  ocean,  furnished 
inspiration  to  the  artist,  the  picture  of  the  heroine 
—  a  thoroughly  English  type  —  was  engraved,  and 
the  prints  were  familiar  on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic 
within  a  very  short  time.  "Evangeline "is the  best- 


EVANGELINE  203 

known  poem  de  longue  haleine  ever  written  in  America. 
Year  after  year  thousands  of  Canadian  and  American 
school-children  con  the  tale  of  the  desolation  of  Grand 
Pre.  The  annotated  editions  for  their  use  promise 
to  extend  into  an  infinite  series.  In  the  Canadian 
province  farthest  from  the  scene  of  the  Expulsion, 
"Evangeline"  has  been  removed  from  the  school  cur 
riculum,  lest  it  should  mislead  the  youthful  subjects 
of  the  British  Crown.  "Evangeline "  has  had  the  rare 
honour  of  being  translated  into  French  by  a  French 
Canadian:  in  1865,  Pamphile  Le  May  published  his 
version  of  it  among  his  "Essais  Poetiques."  It  has 
inspired  historical  studies  like  Casgrain's  "Peleri- 
nage  au  Pays  d'Evangeline,"  wherein  Longfellow's 
fanciful  descriptions  of  Grand  Pre  are  solemnly  taken 
for  matter  of  fact.  The  Expulsion  is  the  life  of  the 
provincial  historical  society,  and  has  been  the  theme 
of  fierce  polemic  for  many  years.  French  and  Cath 
olics  take  one  side,  English  and  Protestants  the 
other.  "Evangeline"  feeds  the  flame  of  controversy. 
"Evangeline"  has  even  become  a  factor  in  business; 
it  'figures  in  countless  advertisements.  Astute  man 
agers  of  steamer  and  railway  lines  find  their  account 
in  a  poem  that  draws  the  tourist  traffic.  Every 
summer  thousands  of  pilgrims  from  the  United 
States  crowd  to  Nova  Scotia,  and  visit  Grand  Pre 
because  it  is  the  scene  of  Longfellow's  touching  idyll. 


204    LIFE   OF  A  LITTLE   COLLEGE 

Truly  these  are  not  slight  results  from  telling  a 
story  to  a  literary  man,  more  than  half  a  century 
ago. 

The  love  of  one's  own  country  is  a  strange  and 
beautiful  thing.  It  cannot  really  concern  us  what 
was  done  or  suffered  by  our  fellow  countrymen  a 
century  and  a  half  ago;  but  French  and  English  still 
take  sides  and  wage  paper  wars  over  this  question 
of  the  Acadians,  their  character,  their  relations  with 
the  British  Government,  and  the  justice  or  injus 
tice  of  their  banishment.  The  expelled  Acadians, 
the  men  who  planned  the  Expulsion,  the  men  who 
carried  it  out,  the  men  who  profited  by  their  removal, 
are  all  in  their  graves. 

There  let  their  discord  with  them  die. 

Let  us  proclaim  the  truce  of  God  to  the  combatants 
in  this  wordy  warfare,  and  try  to  look  at  the  whole 
matter  with  clear  eyes,  unblinded  by  the  mists  of 
prejudice  and  passion. 

II 

Acadia  is  the  name  of  the  old  French  province, 
with  ill-defined  boundaries,  corresponding  roughly 
to  Nova  Scotia  and  New  Brunswick  at  the  present 
day.  The  settlers  were  Acadians,  and  a  hundred 


EVANGELINE  205 

thousand  of  their  descendants  are  proud  to  bear 
that  distinctive  name.  They  are  a  people  apart, 
and  differ  widely  in  character  from  the  French  of 
Quebec.  The  serious  " plantation"  of  the  country 
began  in  1670,  after  the  Treaty  of  Breda;  and  the 
period  of  French  ownership  and  colonization  lasted 
exactly  forty  years,  until  the  capture  of  Port  Royal 
by  Colonel  Francis  Nicholson  and  a  force  of  New 
Englanders  in  1710.  The  Acadians  held  their  lands 
from  seigneurs  to  whom  they  paid  "rents"  in  kind, 
and  other  feudal  dues  like  lods  et  ventes,  and  fines  of 
alienation,  as  in  old  France. 

The  story  of  French  rule  in  Acadie  is  not  a  pleasant 
one,  as  told  with  masterly  clearness  in  the  pages  of 
Parkman.  It  is  a  tale  of  incompetence,  corruption, 
and  pettiness.  The  officials  were  at  odds  with  the 
priests  over  the  liquor  traffic  with  the  Indians.  As 
the  most  exposed  and  vulnerable  portion  of  the  French 
possessions,  it  was  raided  time  and  again  by  expedi 
tions  from  New  England  to  avenge  the  petite  guerre 
of  privateers  and  Indian  forays  from  Canada.  It 
was  only  under  English. rule,  in  the  long  peace  that 
followed  the  Treaty  of  Utrecht,  that  the  Acadians 
increased  and  multiplied,  pressed  upon  the  means  of 
subsistence,  and  swarmed  out  into  new  settlements. 
The  small  English  garrison  at  Annapolis  Royal  was 
powerless  to  affect  their  development,  for  good  or 


o.o6    LIFE  OF  A  LITTLE  COLLEGE 

evil;  and  this  alien  people  in  a  corner  of  the  American 
wilderness  owed  their  happiness  to  the  policy  of 
Walpole. 

The  Acadians  enter  the  world  of  letters  first  in 
the  pages  of  Raynal.  That  unfrocked  Jesuit  had 
never  been  in  America.  His  "  History  of  Settlements 
and  Trade  in  the  East  and  West  Indies"  is  largely 
the  work  of  other  hands.  Diderot  is  said  to  have 
written  as  much  as  one  third  of  it;  and  Diderot  had 
a  definite  aim  and  intention  in  writing.  He  wished 
to  criticize  the  existing  state  of  things  in  France  by 
the  implicit  contrast  of  a  more  ideal  state  of  things 
elsewhere.  The  same  motive  has  been  attributed  to 
Tacitus  in  writing  his  "Germania."  As  a  rebuke  to 
a  corrupt  civilization,  both  historians  paint  the  pic 
ture  of  a  primitive  society,  unspoiled  by  conventions 
and  endowed  with  the  rough  and  simple  virtues. 
Man  in  a  state  of  nature  was  a  favourite  subject  of 
the  philosophes.  Distance  lent  enchantment.  The 
virile  Germans  dwelt  far  from  Rome,  in  the  forests 
of  northern  Europe,  and  the  simple  Acadians  (read 
Arcadians),  children  of  nature,  beyond  the  Atlantic, 
among  the  few  arpents  of  snow.  Raynal  was  not 
actually  the  first  begetter  of  this  legend  of  a  "lambish 
peple,  voyded  of  alle  vyce";  he  had  something  to 
go  on,  the  account  of  a  visiting  priest,  which  he  im 
proved  and  embroidered.  His  version  is  so  important, 


EVANGELINE  207 

and  so  seldom  seen  that  it  may  be  worth  while  to  re 
produce  a  few  significant  parts  of  it:  — 

Not  more  than  five  or  six  English  families  went  over 
to  Acadia,  which  still  remained  inhabited  by  the  first 
colonists,  who  were  only  persuaded  to  stay  upon  a  prom 
ise  made  them  of  never  being  compelled  to  bear  arms 
against  then:  ancient  country.  Such  was  the  attach 
ment  which  the  French  then  had  for  the  honour  of  their 
country.  Cherished  by  the  Government,  respected  by 
foreign  nations,  and  attached  to  their  king  by  a  series 
of  prosperities,  which  rendered  their  name  illustrious  and 
aggrandized  their  power,  they  possessed  that  patriotic 
spirit  which  is  the  effect  of  success.  They  esteemed  it 
an  honour  to  bear  the  name  of  Frenchmen,  and  could  not 
think  of  foregoing  the  title.  The  Acadians  therefore,  in 
submitting  to  a  new  yoke,  had  sworn  never  to  bear  arms 
against  their  former  standards. 

The  neutral  French  had  no  other  articles  to  dispose 
of  among  then-  neighbours,  and  made  still  fewer  exchanges 
among  themselves,  because  each  separate  family  was  able 
and  had  been  used  to  provide  for  its  wants.  They  there 
fore  knew  nothing  of  paper  currency,  which  was  so 
common  throughout  the  rest  of  North  America.  Even 
the  small  quantity  of  specie  which  had  stolen  into  the 
colony  did  not  promote  circulation,  which  is  the  greatest 
advantage  that  can  be  derived  from  it. 

Their  manners  were  of  course  extremely  simple.  There 
was  never  a  cause,  either  civil  or  criminal,  of  importance 
enough  to  be  carried  before  the  court  of  judicature  at 
Annapolis.  Whatever  little  differences  arose  from  time 
to  time  among  them  were  amicably  adjusted  by  their 
elders.  All  their  public  acts  were  drawn  by  their  pastors, 
who  had  likewise  the  keeping  of  their  wills,  for  which, 


208     LIFE   OF   A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

and  for  their  religious  services,  the  inhabitants  gave  them 
a  twenty-seventh  of  their  harvests. 

These  were  sufficient  to  supply  more  than  a  sufficiency 
to  fulfil  every  act  of  liberality.  Real  misery  was  en 
tirely  unknown,  and  benevolence  prevented  the  demands 
of  poverty.  Every  misfortune  was  relieved,  as  it  were, 
before  it  could  be  felt;  and  good  was  universally  dis 
pensed,  without  ostentation  on  the  part  of  the  giver, 
and  without  humiliating  the  person  who  received. 
The  people  were,  in  a  word,  a  society  of  brethren, 
every  individual  of  which  was  equally  ready  to  give 
and  receive  what  he  thought  the  common  right  of 
mankind. 

So  perfect  a  harmony  naturally  prevented  all  those 
connections  of  gallantry  which  are  so  often  fatal  to  the 
peace  of  families.  There  never  was  an  instance  in  this 
society  of  an  unlawful  commerce  between  the  two  sexes. 
This  evil  was  prevented  by  early  marriages;  for  no  one 
passed  his  youth  in  a  state  of  celibacy.  As  soon  as  a 
young  man  came  to  the  proper  age,  the  community  built 
him  a  house,  broke  up  the  lands  about  it,  and  supplied 
him  with  the  necessaries  of  life  for  a  twelvemonth.  Here 
he  received  the  partner  he  had  chosen,  and  who  brought 
him  her  portion  in  flocks.  This  new  family  grew  and 
prospered  like  the  others.  They  altogether  amounted 
to  eighteen  thousand  souls. 

There  were  twelve  or  thirteen  hundred  Acadians 
settled  in  the  capital;  the  rest  were  dispersed  in  the  neigh 
bouring  country.  No  magistrate  was  ever  appointed  to 
rule  over  them;  and  they  were  never  made  acquainted 
with  the  laws  of  England.  No  rents  or  taxes  of  any 
kind  were  ever  exacted  from  them.  Their  new  sovereign 
seemed  to  have  forgotten  them;  and  they  were  equally 
strangers  to  him. 


EVANGELINE  209 

This  is  about  as  veracious  as  Barrere's  account  of 
the  sinking  of  the  Vengeur;  but  it  serves  its  end;  the 
state  of  the  Acadian  habitants  was  almost  the  exact 
opposite  of  the  state  of  the  French  peasants.  Ray- 
nal's  literary  influence  works  in  a  straight  line,  easily 
traced  from  end  to  end.  In  1829,  Judge  Haliburton 
published  in  two  volumes  his  history  of  Nova  Scotia. 
The  author  was  destined  to  become  famous  as  the 
creator  of  "Sam  Slick."  That  a  history  of  this  size 
and  plan  should  have  been  written  and  published  so 
early  in  the  development  of  so  small  a  community 
as  Nova  Scotia  is  a  token  of  the  strong  local  patriot 
ism  which  has  long  characterized  that  seaboard  prov 
ince.  When  Haliburton  wrote,  the  modern  school 
of  history  was  unborn.  Macaulay  had  not  written 
a  line  of  the  work  that  was  to  displace  the  novels 
on  all  the  ladies'  dressing-tables  in  England.  Free 
man,  Stubbs,  and  Gardiner  were  yet  to  unfold  the 
true  doctrine  of  historical  accuracy,  research,  and 
criticism  of  sources.  In  Haliburton's  time,  Hume 
was  still  the  model  historian,  and  Hume  wrote 
history  lying  on  a  sofa.  The  "History  of  Nova 
Scotia"  is  largely  a  compilation;  the  second  volume 
is  taken  over  bodily  from  Bromley;  and  Akins  helped 
to  put  it  together.  The  continuous  narrative  ceases 
with  1763;  what  follows  are  mere  notes,  as  dry  as 
the  entries  of  a  mediaeval  annalist  in  his  chronicle. 


210     LIFE  OF  A  LITTLE  COLLEGE 

At  the  time  of  writing  the  author  represented  a  con 
stituency  largely  Acadian,  and  was  their  champion 
in  the  local  legislature.  He  therefore  can  hardly  be 
blamed  for  copying  freely  from  this  passage  of 
RaynaPs  already  quoted :  — 

Out  of  olde  bookes,  in  good  feith, 
Cometh  al  this  newe  science  that  men  lere. 

Now  Longfellow  used  Haliburton  in  his  studies 
for  "Evangeline";  but  he  was  not  the  first  American 
to  avail  himself  of  this  material  for  the  purposes  of 
fiction.  In  1841,  Mrs.  Catherine  Williams  pub 
lished  at  Providence  a  novel  called  "The  Neutral 
French,  or  the  Exiles  of  Nova  Scotia."  This  tale  is 
an  interesting  illustration  of  the  old  robust  detesta 
tion  of  everything  British  that  flourished  in  the 
United  States  well  on  to  the  end  of  the  century. 
The  preface  states  expressly  that  the  book  is  based 
on  Haliburton,  and  further  assures  the  reader  that 
"the  manner  in  which  he  became  possessed  of  most 
of  the  facts  proves  most  incontestably  that  it  was 
the  design  of  the  British  Colonial  Government  at 
least  that  all  memory  of  this  nefarious  and  dark 
transaction  should  be  forgotten." 

The  first  part  of  "The  Neutral  French"  deals  with 
the  Expulsion,  which  is  avenged  in  the  second  part 
by  the  overthrow  of  British  power  at  the  Revolution. 


EVANGELINE  211 

Chapters  have  mottoes  from  "The  Deserted  Village"; 
and  the  few  rough  wood-cut  illustrations  have  been 
taken  from  some  early  edition  of  that  famous  poem. 
The  life  of  the  simple  peasants  is  given  an  Arcadian 
colouring,  anticipating  Longfellow's  idyll.  The  con 
nection  is  hardly  accidental.  It  has  been  confidently 
stated  that  Longfellow  used  this  novel  in  the  com 
position  of  "Evangeline."1  If  so,  "sweet  Auburn" 
must  be  regarded  as  the  prototype  of  Grand  Pre, 
also  the  "loveliest  village  of  the  plain."  Thus  " Evan- 
geline"  reaches  out  one  hand  to  "The  Deserted  Vil 
lage"  and  the  other  to  "Hermann  und  Dorothea." 
The  chain  of  literary  causation  from  Raynal  to  Long 
fellow  is  complete.  It  would  even  seem  that  Hali- 
burton  influenced  Longfellow,  not  only  directly,  but 
also  indirectly  through  the  forgotten  tale  of  Mrs. 
Williams. 

Ill 

The  great  difficulty  under  which  all  writers  on 
the  Acadian  question  have  hitherto  laboured  is  im 
perfect  acquaintance  with  the  original  sources  of 
information.  Though  Nova  Scotia  has  a  good  col 
lection  of  materials  for  a  provincial  history,  com 
prising  nearly  six  hundred  volumes  of  manuscript, 
carefully  arranged,  catalogued,  and  indexed,  it  has 

1  Cozzens'  Acadia,  or  a  Month  with  the  Bluenoses. 


212     LIFE   OF  A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

not  been  easy  of  access.  An  excellent  selection  from 
these  was  edited  by  Akins  in  1869,  and  extensively 
used  by  Parkman  in  his  "Montcalm  and  Wolfe," 
The  French  controversialists  accuse  Akins  of  partial 
ity,  and  write  still  under  the  influence  of  Raynal, 
Haliburton,  and  Longfellow.  This  is  not  the  way  to 
arrive  at  the  truth. 

It  has  been  my  good  fortune  during  a  long  resi 
dence  in  Nova  Scotia  to  have  special  opportunities 
for  studying  the  primary  authorities;  and  I  have 
edited  two  volumes  of  provincial  archives.  Both 
throw  light  on  the  Acadian  question.  The  first  is  a 
calendar  of  the  governor's  letter-books,  and  a  com 
mission-book  kept  at  Annapolis  Royal;  the  second 
is  a  verbatim  reprint  of  the  minutes  of  the  council. 
Together  they  cover  the  period  between  1713  and 
1741.  A  study  of  these  documents  enables  me  to 
correct  many  errors  which  are  confidently  repeated 
in  book  after  book. 

It  is  a  thousand  pities  that  neither  Longfellow  nor 
Parkman  ever  saw  the  country  they  described,  par 
ticularly  the  sites  of  the  old  Acadian  parishes.  Some 
of  their  best  passages  would  have  gained  in  vigour 
and  colour.  Nova  Scotia,  "that  ill-thriven,  hard- 
visaged,  and  ill-favoured  brat,"  as  Burke  called  her, 
is,  in  fact,  largely  composed  of  beauty-spots;  and 
the  loveliest  part  is  the  long,  fertile  valley  of  the 


EVANGELINE  213 

Annapolis  lying  between  the  North  and  South 
Mountains,  "New  England  idealized"  a  Yale  profes 
sor  called  it,  with  the  scenery  of  the  Connecticut  in 
mind.  And  of  all  the  valley  —  the  Happy  Valley, 
with  its  thrifty  orchards  and  fruit  farms  —  the  most 
beautiful  part  is  the  old  town  of  Annapolis  Royal 
and  its  "banlieue." 

Grand  Pre  is  classic  ground;  the  great,  wind-swept 
reaches  of  meadow  and  marsh-land  beside  the  blue 
waters  of  Minas  Basin,  the  desolation  of  the  old 
French  willows  about  the  village  well,  are  haunted 
with  the  sense  of  tears;  but  Annapolis  town  with  its 
long,  bowery  street,  its  gardens  and  hedges,  is  a 
jewel  for  beauty  and  a  hundredfold  richer  in  his 
torical  associations.  I  shall  never  forget  my  first 
impression  of  the  " garrison,"  as  the  old  fort  area  is 
still  called.  The  river  was  full  from  brim  to  brim  with 
the  red  Fundy  tide.  The  farther  shore,  "the  Gran- 
ville  side,"  showed  dim  and  shadowy  and  rich. 
Down  the  long  street  came  a  singing,  tambourine- 
playing  detachment  of  the  Salvation  Army.  It  was 
from  that  ground  that  Nicholson's  New  Englanders 
advanced  in  triumph  on  the  fort;  there  Rednap 
planted  his  batteries,  and  Du  Vivier's  Indians  and 
Acadians  attempted  in  vain  to  dislodge  old  Mas- 
carene  from  his  cnimbling  ramparts. 

On  the  bridge  across  the  ditch  from  the  main  gate, 


2i4     LIFE   OF  A  LITTLE   COLLEGE 

a  boy  and  girl  were  talking  and  laughing  as  the  sun 
set,  making  love,  I  suppose.  Here  gallant  Subercase 
and  his  tiny  force,  after  sustaining  two  sieges,  marched 
out  with  the  honours  of  war,  drums  beating  and  col 
ours  flying,  between  the  lines  of  British  grenadiers, 
when  the  white  flag  with  the  golden  lilies  came  down 
for  the  last  time  on  the  i6th  of  October,  1710.  In  the 
twilight,  a  single  ghostly  sail  glided  up  to  the  old, 
ruinous  Queen's  Wharf.  This  very  defile  saw  Cham- 
plain's  sails,  Morpain's  pirates,  the  quaint,  high- 
sterned,  dumpy  craft  of  the  seventeenth  and  eight 
eenth  centuries,  little  French  and  English  armadas  of 
Sedgewick  and  Phips,  La  Tour  and  Charnisay.  There 
at  that  very  landing,  the  annual  supply-ship  from 
England  discharged  each  autumn  her  nine  months' 
scant  allowance  for  the  hungry  garrison. 

The  fort  itself  is  a  Vauban  plan,  with  a  couple  of 
ravelins  added  after  the  British  occupation.  The 
French  engineers  knew  how  to  pick  a  site.  This  sandy 
hill  looks  over  the  Annapolis  Basin,  which  defends  it 
on  one  side,  as  the  marsh  and  the  little  Lequille  guard 
the  other.  The  little  town  crouches  in  the  lee  of  its 
defences;  but  it  was  sometimes  taken  in  reverse. 
Within  these  walls,  for  forty  years,  one  British  gov 
ernor  after  another  laboured  to  hold  the  province  for 
England,  planned,  diplomatized,  held  courts  of  jus 
tice,  sustained  sieges,  gathered  the  king's  rents,  and 


EVANGELINE  215 

strove  to  rule  Acadie  as  an  English  province.  Here 
Governor  Armstrong,  old  and  moody,  "subject  to 
fits  of  melancholy,"  was  found  dead  in  his  bed  with 
five  wounds  in  his  breast  from  his  own  sword,  so  reso 
lute  was  he  to  have  done  with  this  unprofitable  life. 
The  hero  of  the  whole  occupation  is  Paul  Mascarene, 
from  the  old  Huguenot  city  of  Castres.  Wise,  firm, 
capable,  he  has  every  one's  good  word.  In  1710,  he 
mounted  the  first  guard  in  the  captured  fort.  Thirty- 
nine  years  later,  "old  and  crazy,"  as  the  brisk  new 
governor  called  him,  he  marched  the  veterans  of 
Philipps's  regiment  a  hundred  miles  through  the  for 
est,  to  lay  down  his  powers  in  the  new  capital  of  the 
province,  which  was  building  on  the  western  shore 
of  Chebucto  Bay. 

This  pretty  town,  with  memories  of  nearly  three 
centuries,  marked  the  headwaters  of  the  stream  of 
Acadian  colonization.  The  original  settlers  came 
from  lands  about  Rochelle,  and  here  they  found  broad 
flats  beside  tidal  waters,  which  they  tilled  as  in  old 
France.  Between  1670  and  1755,  one  long  lifetime, 
they  increased  from  some  three  hundred  souls  to 
more  than  three  times  as  many  thousands.  Within 
the  shelter  of  Walpole's  long  peace,  they  multiplied 
rapidly  and  spread  up  the  river,  beside  Minas  Basin, 
across  the  Bay  of  Fundy. 


2i 6     LIFE   OF  A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

IV 

Their  civil  organization  was  mediaeval.  They  were 
liegemen  of  their  seigneurs,  to  whom,  as  well  as  to  the 
king,  they  paid  annual  dues.  Acadie  was  "a  feudal 
colony  in  America,"  as  Rameau  names  it.  Captured 
in  1710,  Port  Royal  was  only  formally  ceded  to  Eng 
land  with  the  rest  of  Acadie,  by  the  Treaty  of  Utrecht. 
Louis  XIV  was  loath  to  part  with  it,  for  reasons 
easily  understood.  Acadie  with  Cape  Breton  was  the 
extreme  left,  as  Louisiana  was  the  extreme  right,  of 
French  power  in  America.  It  was  nearest  to  France, 
the  base  of  supplies,  and  nearest  to  the  hated  Bas- 
tonnais.1  Acadie  and  Cape  Breton  were  the  outworks 
of  Quebec,  the  citadel  of  New  France;  and  from  them 
it  was  easiest  to  strike  New  England.  Ceded,  how 
ever,  the  territory  was  by  the  twelfth  article  of  this 
same  treaty,  which  made  it  impossible  that  the  Aca- 
dians  could  ever  have  been  "neutral  French,"  as  they 
have  been  called.  By  international  law,  then  as  now, 
the  people  go  with  the  territory. 

The  British  governors  spent  much  time  in  trying 
to  persuade  them  to  take  an  oath  of  allegiance,  and 
at  last  they  succeeded;  but  no  oath  was  necessary. 
How  Louis  XIV  would  have  laughed,  after  the  cession 
of  Alsace  and  Lorraine  in  1681,  to  be  told  that  the 
1  So  the  Acadians  still  call  the  Bostonnais,  or  Americans. 


EVANGELINE  217 

population  were  now  "neutral  Germans."  When  the 
same  provinces  were  handed  back  to  Germany  in  1871, 
what  diplomat  would  have  called  their  inhabitants 
"neutral  French,"  or  pretended  that  they  were  exempt 
from  the  necessity  of  bearing  arms  against  France? 
Oath,  or  no  oath,  the  Acadians  in  1713  became  British 
subjects,  and  if  French  emissaries,  military,  political, 
and  ecclesiastical,  had  let  them  alone,  there  would 
have  been  no  Expulsion  and  no  "Evangeline." 

The  British  administration  of  the  province  was  a 
curious  experiment.  A  handful  of  army  officers  tried 
to  give  an  alien  population  civil  government.  Their 
eflorts,  though  unsuccessful,  illustrate  the  ingrained 
British  respect  for  law  and  for  legal  forms.  All  power 
was  vested  in  the  governor  and  his  council.  For  the 
greatest  part  of  this  period,  the  governor,  Philipps,  a 
peppery  old  Welshman,  who  lived  to  be  over  amety, 
dwelt  in  England,  leaving  the  province  in  charge  of 
a  lieutenant-governor,  who  was  always  an  officer  in 
his  regiment  stationed  in  the  fort.  The  council's 
functions  were  chiefly  advisory.  The  French  inhabi 
tants,  being  Catholics,  could  not,  according  to  the  law 
of  England,  vote  or  enjoy  representative  institutions. 

They  did,  however,  at  the  command  of  the  governor, 
elect  deputies,  six  or  eight  to  the  district.  In  order 
that  each  in  turn  might  share  the  honour  and  burden 
of  office,  new  deputies  were  chosen  annually,  on  the 


2i 8     LIFE  OF  A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

nth  of  October,  when  the  crops  were  all  in.  These 
representatives  of  the  people  were  to  be  men  of  prop 
erty,  the  "ancientest"  men,  "  honest,  discreet,  and  un 
derstanding.  "  On  election,  the  new-made  deputies 
were  to  come  to  the  seat  of  government,  with  two  of 
the  outgoing  members,  to  receive  the  governor's  ap 
probation  and  orders.  They  acted  as  intermediaries 
between  the  Government  and  the  habitants,  and  were 
responsible  for  the  order  and  good  behaviour  of  their 
several  districts.  They  were  required  to  carry  out  the 
decisions  of  the  General  Court,  and  enforce  the  proc 
lamations  of  the  governor.  These  were  read  out  on 
Sunday  after  mass  and  affixed  to  the  "mass-house" 
door.  Sometimes  the  deputies  had  to  act  as  arbitra 
tors  and  examine  disputed  lands;  or  inspect  roads  and 
dikes;  or  assist  the  surveyor  in  determining  bounda 
ries.  They  had  no  powers  save  those  conferred  by 
the  Government,  but  they  were  a  fairly  effective  lever 
wherewith  to  move  the  mass  of  the  population.  Brit 
ish  authority  was  never  powerful.  At  first,  it  did  not 
extend,  in  the  picturesque  phrase  of  the  time,  "be 
yond  a  cannon-shot  from  the  walls  of  the  fort."  As 
time  went  on,  it  became  supreme  about  Annapolis 
Royal,  but  it  diminished  in  direct  ratio  to  the  distance 
from  the  centre.  It  was  weak  at  Minas,  weaker  at 
Cobequid.  At  Chignecto  it  had  reached  the  vanish 
ing  point. 


EVANGELINE  219 

It  is  often  stated  that  there  was  no  taxation  of  the 
Acadians  by  the  British  Government;  but  such  is  not 
the  case.  By  1 730,  the  seigneurial  rights  of  the  various 
proprietors  had  been  bought  up  by  the  Crown,  and  a 
determined  effort  was  made  to  collect,  for  the  benefit 
of  His  Britannic  Majesty,  all  quit-rents,  homages, 
and  services  of  whatever  kind,  formerly  paid  to  their 
respective  seigneurs  by  the  French  of  Minas  and  other 
places  on  the  Bay  of  Fundy.  The  legal  tender  was 
" Boston  money,"  which  the  Acadians  would  not 
take,  preferring  the  French  currency  brought  in  by 
their  clandestine  trade  with  Cape  Breton,  which  was 
hoarded  and  sent  to  Boston  to  be  exchanged.  These 
feudal  dues  were  payable  in  the  old  days  at  the  seig 
neur's  mansion,  "in  kind," — wheat  and  capons  and 
partridges. 

"Rent-gatherers"  were  appointed  for  the  different 
districts.  Alexandre  Bourg  de  Bellehumeur,  a  former 
seigneur,  was  "Procoureur  du  Roy"  at  Minas.  He 
was  to  render  an  account  twice  a  year,  to  keep  a  rent- 
roll,  to  give  proper  receipts,  and  to  pay  over  only  to 
duly  legalized  authorities.  He  was  to  pay  himself  by 
retaining  three  shillings  out  of  every  pound.  All  the 
"contracts"  were  to  be  brought  in  to  the  governor,  so 
that  he  might  satisfy  himself  what  was  legally  due 
in  each  case.  There  were  naturally  refusals,  excuses, 
and  delays,  but  rents  were  collected.  After  seven 


220     LIFE   OF  A  LITTLE   COLLEGE 

years,  Bourg  was  replaced  by  Mangeant,  who  had  fled 
from  Quebec  after  killing  his  man  in  a  duel.  Three 
years  later,  Mangeant  left  the  country,  and  Bourg 
was  reinstated  by  Mascarene.  Other  "rent-gather 
ers"  were  Prudent  Robichau  for  Annapolis  Royal  and 
the  "banlieue,"  John  Duon  for  the  district  along  the 
river,  and  for  Chignecto,  James  O'Neal,  surgeon,  from 
Cork,  who  had  studied  medicine  at  the  college  of 
Lombard  at  Paris  and  married  an  Acadian  girl. 

All  these  "rent-gatherers"  were  also  notaries  pub 
lic.  Besides  their  rent-rolls,  they  were  to  keep  proper 
books  of  account,  to  take  particular  notice  of  all  sales 
and  exchanges,  by  whom  and  to  whom  alienated  and 
transferred,  to  prevent  frauds  by  clandestine  deeds 
of  exchange,  to  notify  the  Provincial  Secretary  of  all 
sales,  conveyances,  mortgages,  and  agreements  of  ex 
change,  that  they  might  be  properly  registered,  to 
report  the  presence  of  strangers,  and  to  take  cogni 
zance  of  births,  deaths,  and  wills,  that  intentions  of 
testators  might  be  duly  carried  out.  This  is  civil  ad 
ministration  in  outline.  Underlying  all  is  a  simple 
desire  to  establish  •  law  and  order  and  to  do  justice 
between  man  and  man. 


Another  erroneous  statement  frequently  made  is 
that  the  Acadians  had  few  disputes,  and  those  they 


EVANGELINE  221 

brought  to  their  parish  priests  for  settlement.  The 
fact  is  that  these  French  peasants  came  to  the  British 
power  for  justice  almost  as  soon  as  it  was  established 
in  the  land.  The  beginning  of  civil,  as  distinguished 
from  martial,  law  under  British  rule  is  due  to  the 
humanity  and,  good  sense  of  a  forgotten  lieutenant- 
governor,  Thomas  Caulfeild.  He  was  apparently  a 
cadet  of  the  noble  house  of  Charlemont,  an  old  soldier 
who  had  seen  service  under  Peterborough  in  Spain. 
He  writes  that  he  is  " buried  alive"  in  Nova  Scotia, 
and  he  dies  there  in  debt  incurred  in  the  maintenance 
of  the  Government.  In  a  despatch  to  the  Lords  of 
Trade  he  states  that  there  are  no  courts  of  judicature 
here.  Evidently  in  the  opinion  of  his  superior  officer, 
the  hot-tempered  and  overbearing  Nicholson,  he  had 
exceeded  his  powers,  for  Caulfeild  writes  further  that 
he  has  tried  to  suit  both  parties,  but  that  Nicholson 
asked  to  see  the  commission  that  authorized  him  to 
do  justice  hi  civil  affairs;  "to  w°d  I  answered  that  as 
I  had  ye  Honour  to  Command  in  ye  absence  of  ye 
Governor  I  Should  allways  endeavour  to  Cultivate 
as  good  an  Understanding  amongst  ye  People  as  pos 
sible  believeing  the  same  essential  for  his  majues  Serv 
ice,  and  tho'  I  had  no  Comn  for  that  Effect  yet*  I 
held  myself  blamable  to  Suffer  Injustice  to  be  done 
before  me  without  taking  Notice  thereof,  haveing 
Never  Interposed  farther  than  by  ye  Consent  of  both 


222    LIFE  OF  A  LITTLE  COLLEGE 

Partyes."    And  he  asks   for  instructions  "on  that 
head." 

Caulfeild  died  soon  after  this,  but  apparently  his 
suggestion  did  not  fall  to  the  ground.  The  fifth  ar 
ticle  of  the  next  governor's  commission  empowered 
him  "to  adjudge  and  settle  all  claims  and  disputes 
in  regard  to  land  in  the  province."  In  the  Broad 
Seal  commission  extending  his  powers,  he  is  to  "settle 
all  questions  of  inheritance."  Accordingly,  Philipps 
writes  to  the  Secretary  of  State  that  the  governor  and 
council  have  constituted  themselves  into  a  court  on 
the  model  of  the  General  Court  of  Virginia,  to  meet 
four  times  a  year;  for  the  idea  that  military  govern 
ment  alone  prevails,  keeps  settlers  out  of  the  country. 
Three  members  of  the  council  were  commissioned 
justices  of  the  peace  and  empowered  "to  Examine 
and  Enquire  into  all  Pleas,  Debates  and  Differences 
that  are  or  may  be  amongst  the  inhabitants  of  Said 
Province."  Ten  years  later,  the  governor  writes  to 
the  notary  of  Minas  regarding  the  people  of  that  dis 
trict  and  other  distant  parts  of  the  province  "com 
ing  in  daily,"  with  complaints  against  their  neighbors, 
and  failing  to  warn  the  "adverse  partys"  of  their 
intentions.  The  determination  to  follow  the  forms 
of  law  and  to  act  fairly  is  unmistakable  even  without 
the  express  declaration  at  the  end:  "I  and  the  gentle 
men  of  the  Council  have  no  other  Intention  than  to 


EVANGELINE  223 

do  Justice  Impartially  to  you  all."  Next  year  he 
repeats  his  instructions  to  Bourg.  If  the  defendants 
refuse  to  appear,  the  plaintiffs  are  to  have  certificates 
from  the  notary  to  that  effect.  The  reason  given  is 
surely  adequate:  "The  great  Charge  that  persons 
praying  for  justice  are  put  to  By  their  Expensive 
Journeys  from  Such  Remote  parts  of  the  Province  as 
Yours." 

The  preamble  to  a  general  proclamation  dated 
January  13,  i737~38,  throws  further  light  on  the 
matter.  It  recites  how  it  has  been  "customary" 
hitherto  for  the  inhabitants  to  come  to  the  governor 
and  council  for  justice  at  all  times,  and,  from  "Ig 
norance  or  Design,"  fail  to  summon  the  defendants. 
This  practice  "hath  been  Exclaimed  against  by  Sev 
eral  of  the  Inhabitants  themselves  not  only  as  hurt- 
full  &  prejudicial  to  their  private  &  Domestick  affairs 
to  be  thus  Hurried  &  Impeded  by  their  Impatient, 
Cruel  &  Letigeous  Neighbours,  but  even  also  very 
Troublesome,  fatigueing  and  Inconvenient  to  the 
Governor  &  Council  to  be  meeting  daily  and  almost 
constantly  to  the  Prejudice  many  times  of  their  own 
Private  Affairs  to  hear  and  examine  their  many  frivo 
lous  and  undigested  complaints." 

The  proclamation  accordingly  fixes  four  days  in 
the  year  for  the  hearing  of  causes,  the  first  Tuesday 
in  March  and  May  and  the  last  Tuesday  in  July  and 


224    LIFE  OF   A  LITTLE   COLLEGE 

November.  This  is  simply  varying  the  dates  fixed 
by  Philipps  in  1721.  The  chief  point  in  the  proclama 
tion  is  an  order  that  plaintiffs  must  lodge  their  com 
plaints  at  the  office  of  the  Provincial  Secretary  and 
apply  to  him  for  the  necessary  summons  to  be  sent 
to  the  defendants,  in  order  that  the  latter  might  have 
at  least  three  weeks'  notice  of  proceedings  against 
them.  Again  the  aim  is  plainly  to  make  procedure 
regular  and  to  keep  down  the  number  of  "frivolous 
and  undigested  complaints."  That  these  were  a  real 
annoyance  is  clear  from  the  irritable  tone  of  the 
wording. 

Not  only  was  this  administration  of  justice  burden 
some  and  forced  upon  the  council  by  the  nature  of 
the  Acadians,  but  it  was  carried  on  for  years  without 
fee  or  reward.  In  1738,  Armstrong  and  his  council 
sent  an  important  memorial  to  Philipps,  in  which 
they  state  that  they  have  to  the  utmost  of  their  ca 
pacity  and  power  endeavoured  to  discharge  their 
duty  by  an  equal  and  impartial  administration  of 
justice,  "Having  never  had  any  advantage  or  Salary 
for  Our  Acting  as  Members  of  his  Majesty's  Council 
for  this  Province." 

These  documents,  which  he  never  saw,  more  than 
justify  Parkman  in  his  general  statement,  "They 
were  vexed  with  incessant  quarrels  among  themselves 
arising  from  the  unsettled  boundaries  of  their  lands." 


EVANGELINE  225 

Richard,  in  quoting  this  passage,  asks,  "Could  it  be 
otherwise  when  the  population  was  four  times  as  large 
as  it  had  been  in  1713,  when  these  lands  had  been 
divided  and  subdivided  so  as  to  leave  nothing  but 
morsels,  and  when  the  lands  had  never  been  surveyed 
by  Government?  "  Here  he  is  misled  by  Haliburton, 
who  writes,  "They  had  long  since  been  refused  adjud 
ication  upon  their  disputes  in  the  local  courts;  their 
boundaries  and  the  titles  to  their  said  lands  were  con 
sequently  in  great  confusion."  Both  have  erred 
through  ignorance  of  the  sources.  The  truth  is  the 
very  opposite.  The  courts  did  "adjudicate "  and  their 
lands  were  surveyed. 

VI 

As  early  as  1728,  David  Dunbar,  Esq.,  surveyor- 
general  of  His  Majesty's  woods  in  North  America,  is 
made  surveyor  of  His  Majesty's  woods  in  Nova  Sco 
tia,  —  a  very  different  place,  apparently.  His  special 
duty  was  to  set  apart  lands  most  fit  to  produce  masts 
and  timber  for  the  royal  navy.  Dunbar  appointed 
George  Mitchell,  "gentleman,"  his  deputy.  In  1732, 
Mitchell  reported  to  Governor  Armstrong  the  surveys 
he  had  made  in  the  province  between  the  Kennebec 
and  St.  Croix  Rivers.  Six  townships  had  been  laid 
out. 

An  order  of  Armstrong's  dated  July  20, 1733,  directs 


226     LIFE   OF  A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

Mitchell  to  survey  the  land  on  both  sides  of  the  An 
napolis  River,  "from  the  Gutt  upwards,  Duely  Dis 
tinguishing  the  Uninhabited  lands  from  those  belong 
ing  to  the  property  of  any  particular  person,  whose 
Estates  you  are  also  to  Survey,  and  to  mark  out  the 
uncultivated  lands  of  Each  Estate  from  those  that 
are  Improven  or  inclosed."  His  discoveries  in  regard 
to  wood  and  soil  are  to  be  transmitted  to  the  Lords 
of  Trade.  Dunbar's  instructions  to  Mitchell  to  pro 
ceed  to  Annapolis  Royal,  dated  at  Boston  three  years 
previous,  direct  him  to  report  to  the  governor  and 
show  his  commission  and  papers.  His  primary  duty 
as  king's  surveyor  is  to  select  areas  of  large  timber, 
particularly  white  pine,  for  masting,  but  if  the  situa 
tion  of  crown  lands  will  interfere  with  settlements, 
he  is  to  consult  with  the  governor  and  report  all  such 
cases,  duly  attested,  to  Dunbar.  He  is  to  keep  reg 
ular  plans  carefully  in  a  special  book,  to  make  a  plan 
and  survey  for  each  grantee,  and  also  a  detailed  copy 
of  each  in  the  book  aforesaid.  The  survey  was  in 
tended  to  be  careful  and  thorough. 

Mitchell  had  a  guard  of  soldiers  given  him  against 
the  Indians,  as  many  as  could  be  spared,  and  set  to 
work.  With  the  suspicion  of  peasants,  the  Acadians 
opposed  the  survey,  and  a  special  order  had  to  be 
issued  to  them,  to  mark  out  their  boundaries.  By 
April,  1734,  Mitchell  had  completed  his  task,  and 


EVANGELINE  227 

was  ordered  by  Armstrong  to  continue  his  work 
throughout  the  French  settlements,  as  specified,  all 
round  the  Bay  of  Fundy.  Mitchell  was  employed 
apparently  until  1735,  after  which  Lieutenant  Am- 
hurst  acted  as  deputy  surveyor.  In  1739,  Shirreff, 
the  secretary,  received  strict  orders  from  Armstrong 
to  make  out  no  patent  except  on  the  survey  of  Colonel 
Dunbar  or  of  one  of  his  deputies.  The  preamble  shows 
that  the  greatest  care  was  taken  with  the  grants  and 
surveys. 

The  failure  to  assist  in  the  work  of  the  survey  by 
planting  stakes  in  their  boundaries  shows  the  char 
acter  of  the  Acadians.  They  were  French  peasants 
of  the  eighteenth  century,  with  no  little  admixture 
of  Indian  blood.  They  were  simple,  pious,  and  frugal; 
but  they  had  the  faults  of  their  kind;  they  were 
ignorant  and  uneducated;  few  could  even  sign  their 
names.  They  were  led  by  their  priests,  who  were 
naturally  and  inevitably  political  agents  for  France. 
In  mental  make,  they  must  have  been  much  the 
same  as  the  peasants  described  by  Arthur  Young, 
except  that  they  were  not  taxed  to  death  to  support 
a  worthless  king  and  court.  They  had  the  peasant's 
hunger  for  land,  the  peasant's  petty  cunning,  the 
peasant's  greed,  all  perfectly  comprehensible  in  view 
of  their  hard,  narrow  life  of  toil.  Their  disputes  over 
land  were  endless.  Besides,  the  Government  had 


228     LIFE  OF  A  LITTLE  COLLEGE 

to  take  action  against  the  use  of  fraudulent  half- 
bushel  measures,  against  cheating  in  the  length  of 
cord- wood,  against  "clandestine  deeds''  and  unlawful 
transfers  of  land.  Proclamations  were  issued  against 
neglect  of  fences,  and  failure  to  repair  dikes.  It  was 
necessary  to  repeat  orders  frequently,  for  the  obsti 
nacy  of  the  Acadian  is  proverbial.  One  ordinance  for 
bade  wild  young  fellows  catching  the  horses  loose  in 
the  fields  and  riding  them  about,  to  their  great  injury. 
Even  Acadian  boys  would  be  boys.  It  must  have  been 
the  dash  of  Indian  blood  that  drove  them  to  this 
prank,  as  it  drove  others  to  join  Du  Vivier  against 
Mascarene,  or  to  capture  the  vessel  that  was  carrying 
them  away  from  Acadie,  or  to  live  by  privateering 
along  the  Gulf  shore  after  the  Expulsion.  The  Aca- 
dians  were  not  the  Arcadians  of  Raynal  and  Long 
fellow.  They  were  human. 

The  character  of  the  people,  however,  was  hardly 
a  factor  in  the  political  problem.  Left  to  themselves, 
there  would  have  been  no  problem.  Such  as  it  was, 
the  mild,  just  English  rule  was  solving  it.  The  diffi 
culties  arose  from  the  fact  that  the  Acadians  were 
French  and  Catholic  in  a  province  actually  British 
and  Protestant.  That  there  should  have  been  con 
stant  clashing  between  the  Government  and  the 
priests  should  surprise  no  one.  Grant  them  human, 


EVANGELINE  229 

with  opposing  national  ends  to  advance,  and  the 
struggle  follows  as  a  matter  of  course. 

Reverse  the  situation.  Imagine  Massachusetts  con 
quered  by  France,  ceded  to  her,  and  Boston  held  by 
a  weak  French  garrison,  powerless  for  good  or  evil,  but 
maintaining  a  form  of  government.  Imagine  the 
Puritans  guaranteed  the  exercise  of  their  religion,  but 
their  ministers  subject  to  the  approval  of  a  Vaudreuil 
or  a  Bigot.  If  the  French  historians,  Rameau,  Cas- 
grain,  Richard,  had  approached  the  subject  after 
forming  this  mental  picture,  they  would  have  taken 
a  more  charitable  view  of  the  English  treatment  of 
Acadie.  One  thing  is  unimaginable  —  that  the  men 
of  Massachusetts  would  not  meet  and  organize  and 
fight. 

The  difficulty  lay  deeper  still.  The  Acadians  were 
moved  helplessly  hither  and  thither  by  hands  far 
away  in  Quebec,  in  Versailles,  in  "  the  high  chess  game, 
whereof  the  pawn  are  men."  They  were  mere  tools  of 
French  policy,  to  be  used,  broken,  and  thrown  aside 
in  the  secular  struggle  with  England  for  the  suprem 
acy  of  the  New  World.  But  who  will  dare  to  re-tell 
the  story  that  Parkman  has  told  once  for  all? 

Thanks  to  "Evangeline,"  the  Expulsion  will  never 
be  understood,  That  poem  is  responsible  for  the  the 
ory  that  the  measure  was  a  brutal,  wanton,  motive 
less,  irrational  act  of  a  tyrannical  power  upon  an  in- 


230     LIFE  OF  A  LITTLE  COLLEGE 

nocent  people;  and  that  power  was  Great  Britain. 
Ultimately  it  was  the  action  of  the  Home  Govern 
ment,  for  no  colonial  governor  would  have  incurred 
the  expense,  —  for  it  cost  money  even  in  the  eight 
eenth  century  to  transport  nine  thousand  people  hun 
dreds  of  miles,  —  to  say  nothing  of  the  responsibility, 
without  express  orders. 

But  the  plain  truth  is  that  New  England  must 
share  that  responsibility.  The  idea  of  the  "removal" 
originated  with  Shirley,  and  the  Governor  of  Massa 
chusetts  was  urged  repeatedly  by  him.  The  actual 
work  of  collecting  the  Acadian  at  Grand  Pre  was  done 
by  Winslow,  a  New  England  man.  The  firm  that  char 
tered  the  ships  to  carry  them  off  was  the  well-known 
Boston  firm  of  Apthorpe  and  Hancock.  The  Expul 
sion  was  not  a  local  measure;  it  was  for  the  defence 
of  New  England  and  all  the  other  British  colonies  in 
America,  as  well  as  for  Nova  Scotia.  The  actual 
work  of  removing  the  unfortunate  people  was  not 
harshly  done.  They  were  protected  from  the  soldiers. 
As  far  as  possible,  families  and  villages  were  kept 
together  on  the  transports. 

VII 

The  Expulsion  can  be  understood  only  in  relation 
to  the  larger  events  of  which  it  was  a  part.  In  1755, 


EVANGELINE  231 

England  and  France  were  preparing  for  the  Seven 
Years'  War,  the  climax  of  their  century  of  conflict  for 
America.  It  was  a  tremendous  struggle,  though  its 
importance  is  obscured  by  the  Revolutionary  and 
Napoleonic  wars.  It  gave  England  America  and 
India;  it  drove  France  from  two  continents.  On  this 
side  of  the  Atlantic,  the  war  had  actually  begun,  for 
Boscawen  had  captured  the  Alcide  and  the  Lysy  and 
Braddock  had  been  routed  on  the  Monongahela. 
The  war  had  begun,  and  begun  with  a  great  defeat 
for  England;  no  one  could  tell  how  it  would  end. 

In  Nova  Scotia,  one  corner  of  the  world-wide  battle 
field,  the  British  situation  was  anything  but  safe  or 
reassuring.  The  French  population  outnumbered  the 
English  more  than  two  to  one.  The  great  French 
fortress  of  Louisbourg  was  a  city  of  ten  thousand  in 
habitants.  Twenty  years  of  labour  and  millions  of 
livres  had  been  spent  on  its  fortifications,  which  even 
in  their  ruins  look  formidable.  It  was  the  best-de 
fended  city  in  America  except  Quebec;  and  it  was 
within  easy  striking  distance  of  Halifax,  the  newly 
founded  seat  of  British  power.  "The  Dunkirk  of 
America,"  it  was  stronger  than  ever,  and  was  receiv 
ing  supplies  constantly  from  the  Acadians. 

French  emissaries  were  busy  among  these  unfor 
tunate  people,  as  they  had  been  for  forty  years,  teach 
ing  them  that  they  had  never  ceased  to  be  subjects  of 


LIFE   OF  A  LITTLE   COLLEGE 

the  King  of  France,  that  the  return  of  the  Pretender 
would  restore  Acadie  to  the  French  Crown,  that  re 
maining  under  British  authority  would  mean  loss  of 
their  priests,  loss  of  their  sacraments,  loss  of  salvation. 
The  infamous  Le  Loutre  had  forced  many  to  retire 
to  French  territory,  and  they  were  in  arms  just  across 
the  border. 

Acadians  had  joined  invading  French  forces  more 
than  once.  In  view  of  the  inevitable  war,  the  pres 
ence  of  such  a  population,  ten  thousand  French,  at  the 
gates  of  Halifax,  with  their  Indian  allies  murdering 
and  scalping  just  outside  the  pickets,  was  a  danger  of 
the  first  magnitude.  To  disregard  it  was  to  court 
defeat,  for  the  garrison  at  Halifax  was  thrust  far  up 
into  the  power  of  France,  a  nut  in  the  jaws  of  a  nut 
cracker.  There  was  no  force  to  bridle  the  Acadians. 
Fair  words  and  fair  measures  had  been  exhausted. 
Nothing  remained  but  to  remove  them  out  of  the 
province. 

Their  deportation  was  a  military  necessity.  It  was 
cruel,  as  all  war  is  cruel;  the  innocent  suffered  as  they 
do  in  all  war.  The  measure  was  precautionary,  like 
cutting  down  trees  and  levelling  houses  outside  a 
fort  that  expects  a  siege,  to  afford  the  coming  foe  no 
shelter,  and  to  give  the  garrison  a  clear  field  of  fire. 


EVERYBODY'S  ALICE 


EVERYBODY'S    ALICE 


EXACTLY  forty-nine  years  ago,  a  little  book 
was  published  in  London,  called  "  Alice's  Ad 
ventures  in  Wonderland"  which  almost  at  once 
became  a  nursery  classic.  The  copy  used  in  the 
preparation  of  this  discourse  bears  a  recent  date. 
It  is  the  property  of  a  young  lady  whom  I  know 
very  well,  and  whom,  as  she  has  kindly  allowed  me 
to  make  the  freest  use  of  her  treasure  and  has  as 
sisted  me  in  other  ways,  it  is  simply  my  duty  to  thank 
publicly.  The  state  of  this  precious  document  is, 
I  regret  to  say,  far  from  satisfactory.  It  seems  to 
have  been  very  intently  if  not  judiciously  studied, 
if  the  usual  inferences  may  be  drawn  from  the  loos 
ened  covers,  the  dog's-ears,  and  the  thumb-marks 
along  the  margins.  Several  pages  are  altogether 
missing,  and  I  should  have  been  at  a  serious  loss  in 
consequence,  had  it  not  been  for  my  young  friend, 
who  was  able  from  her  intimate  knowledge  of  the 
text,  to  fill  up  the  gaps  in  the  narrative  by  oral  reci 
tation.  From  this  mutilated  copy,  I  have  gleaned 
the  following  interesting  facts  regarding  the  popu- 

235 


23 6     LIFE   OF   A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

larity  of  this  important  work.  Although  appearing 
in  an  expensive  form,  no  fewer  than  eighty-three 
thousand  copies  had  been  sold  by  1891.  Of  a  cheaper 
"people's  edition,"  twenty-four  thousand  copies  were 
insufficient  to  supply  the  demand  within  four  years 
of  the  first  issue;  and  the  sale  still  goes  on. 

More  recently  it  has  been  published  in  a  still  cheaper 
form  for  sixpence,  not  to  mention  the  pirated  edi 
tions.  By  this  date,  nearly  half  a  million  copies  of 
the  book  must  be  in  circulation;  and  it  is  safe  to  say 
that  at  least  five  times  that  number  of  children  have 
been  made  happy  by  its  perusal.  Nor  is  the  boon 
confined  to  English  children.  Little  Germans  may 
read  "Alices  Abenteuer  im  Wunderland";  French 
children,  "Aventures  d 'Alice  au  Pays  des  Mer- 
veilles";  and  little  Italians,  "Le  Avventure  d' Alice 
nel  Paese  delle  Meraviglie."  In  a  word,  its  reputa 
tion  is  European. 

Nor  is  it  a  favourite  in  the  nursery  alone;  it  has 
penetrated  into  almost  every  department  of  English 
thought.  The  periodical  press  of  the  last  twenty 
years  teems  with  allusions  to  this  curious  production. 
A  quotation  from  it  is  almost  as  readily  understood 
as  a  tag  from  "Hamlet";  and  the  little  heroine  her 
self  has  joined  that  undying  band  of  shadows,  who 
live  only  in  books  and  are  yet  so  much  more  real  to 
us  than  nine-tenths  of  the  men  and  women  we  pass 


EVERYBODY'S   ALICE  237 

every  day  upon  the  street.  The  "Saturday  Review" 
is  not  too  cynical,  the  " Thunderer"  too  serious,  the 
"Quarterly"  too  starch,  nor  the  "Nation"  too 
morose  to  point  some  of  their  best  sentences  with 
allusions  to  the  sayings  or  doings  of  Alice,  a  child. 
She  has  invaded  the  classroom  of  the  college;  and 
the  ordinary  course  in  metaphysics  is  rather  incom 
plete  without  her.  The  prim  textbook  even  admits 
her  within  its  bounds  and  is  brighter  for  her  presence. 
The  only  instance  of  any  objection  being  raised 
comes  from  a  very  famous  city  in  the  West.  There, 
some  very  wise  parent  found  fault  with  what  may  be 
called  the  ww-natural  history  of  the  book;  and  pro 
tested  against  the  famous  statement  about  the  little 
crocodile  improving  his  shining  tail,  as  calculated 
to  mislead  the  infant  mind.  This  is,  I  fear,  too 
good  to  be  true  even  for  the  meridian  of  Chicago, 
though  we  know  that  very  peculiar  things  do  happen 
in  that  wonderful  city.  I  am  haunted  by  the  fear 
that  this  sapient  papa  or  mamma,  who  wrote  to  the 
papers,  will  upon  investigation  prove  to  be  only 
some  ingenious  reporter  short  of  "copy";  and  a 
good  story  will  be  for  ever  spoiled.  Let  us  hope  that 
this  legend  will  never  be  subjected  to  the  ordeal  of 
the  Higher  Criticism.  Apart  from  this,  however, 
there  has  never  been  a  discordant  note  in  the  uni 
versal  chorus  of  praise. 


238     LIFE   OF   A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

II 

The  question  naturally  arises,  What  is  the  cause 
of  this  widespread  popularity?  What  is  there  in  the 
little  book  to  make  it  a  favourite  not  only  with  chil 
dren  everywhere,  but  with  learned  professors,  busy 
journalists,  men  of  the  world?  The  book  consists 
of  less  than  two  hundred  loosely  printed  pages,  and 
nearly  fifty  pictures  encroach  seriously  upon  the 
letter-press.  Any  one  can  run  through  it  in  an  hour. 
Clearly,  then,  it  is  not  imposing  size  and  solidity 
which  have  made  it  famous.  Still  less  is  its  theme 
of  a  kind  to  attract  general  attention.  What  is  it 
about?  To  do  more  than  allude  to  the  main  outlines 
of  such  a  classic  tale  is  surely  unnecessary,  in  any 
English-speaking  audience.  Every  one  knows  how 
Alice  sat  beside  her  sister  on  that  memorable  sum 
mer's  afternoon  when  the  White  Rabbit  ran  by, 
looking  at  his  watch;  and  how  she  followed  him  down 
the  rabbit  hole,  falling  and  falling,  until  she  landed 
at  last  safely  in  the  land  of  wonders.  Every  one 
knows  what  happened,  when  Alice  drank  from  the 
little  bottle  which  had  a  "mixed  flavour  of  cherry- 
tart,  custard,  pine-apple,  roast  turkey,  toffee  and 
hot  buttered  toast";  and  when  she  and  the  Mouse 
met  in  the  Pool  of  Tears;  and  when  the  draggled 
animals  organized  the  caucus  race.  It  is  almost 


EVERYBODY'S   ALICE  239 

proof  of  an  imperfect  education  to  be  ignorant  of 
how  the  Rabbit  sent  in  a  little  bill,  how  the  senten 
tious  and  short-tempered  Caterpillar  ordered  Alice 
about  and  gave  her  good  advice,  or  how  the  Duchess 
and  the  Cook  with  the  penchant  for  pepper  in  the 
soup  treated  the  baby  that  Alice  rescued.  A  writer 
is,  of  course,  a  privileged  person,  but  there  are  limits 
to  the  liberties  he  may  take,  and  to  assume  that  to 
you,  Gentle  Reader,  the  Mad  Tea-Party,  the  Queen's 
croquet-ground,  the  Mock-Turtle's  story,  the  Lobster 
Quadrille,  the  trial  of  the  Knave  of  Hearts  are  names 
and  nothing  more  is  like  insinuating  your  ignorance 
of  the  multiplication- table. 

Why  the  book  finds  favour  with  the  little  ones  is 
no  mystery.  They  have  all  Alice's  preference  for 
a  book  with  pictures  and  conversation:  and  here 
they  find  both  in  plenty.  The  story  is  a  real  story. 
There  are  no  digressions,  no  repelling  paragraphs  of 
solid  information,  no  morals  except  the  delightful 
aphorisms  of  the  Duchess.  Something  is  continually 
happening;  and  that  something  is  always  marvel 
lous.  Children  are  the  fairest  and  frankest  critics 
in  the  world.  They  have  no  preconceived  notions, 
no  theories  of  art,  no  clique  politics  to  hamper  their 
judgments.  Of  the  jargon  of  criticism  they  know  not 
a  word;  but  they  have  by  nature  a  firm  grip  of  the 
maxim  that  there  is  only  one  style  of  writing  which 


24o     LIFE   OF   A    LITTLE   COLLEGE 

is  inadmissible,  —  the  tiresome.  One  infallible  rule 
they  apply  to  their  books,  "Are  they  interesting?" 
No  other  considerations  have  the  slightest  weight 
with  them,  not  the  author's  zeal,  not  his  knowledge, 
not  his  reputation,  not  tenderness  for  his  feelings, 
as  when  little  Anne  Thackeray  asked  her  father  why 
he  did  not  write  stories  like  "David  Copperfield." 
To  have  won  their  suffrages  by  a  brand-new  fairy 
tale  is  an  achievement  of  which  any  man  might  be 
proud.  Most  nursery  legends  are  seemingly  as  old 
as  the  race  and  made  according  to  a  few  well-worn 
patterns.  It  is  only  at  the  rarest  intervals  that  any 
addition  is  made  to  the  small  stock  of  world-wide 
fable. 

The  charm  which  "Alice"  possesses  for  children 
of  a  larger  growth  is  more  manifold,  but  still  easy 
to  trace  out.  There  are  happily  many  who  never 
quite  lose  the  heart  of  the  child  in  the  grown  man 
or  woman,  who  never  grow  old,  whose  souls  remain 
fresh  and  unhardened  after  half  a  century  of  rough 
contact  with  this  work-a-day  world.  They  under 
stand  the  story  of  the  French  king  who  was  dis 
covered  by  the  dignified  foreign  ambassador,  play 
ing  horse  on  all  fours  with  some  riotous  young 
princelings.  Far  from  being  confused,  or  offering 
apology,  he  merely  asked  the  stranger  if  he  were 
a  father,  and  on  learning  that  he  was,  said,  — 


EVERYBODY'S   ALICE  241 

"In  that  case,  we'll  have  another  turn  round  the 
room." 

Over  a  child's  story-book,  they  can  dream  them 
selves  back  again  into  their  childhood  as  Chamisso 
says,  and  be  all  the  better  for  it.  Again,  "Alice's 
Adventures"  reveals  a  quite  unusual  aptitude  for 
being  read  a  second  time,  and  a  third,  and  so  on  in 
definitely.  This  is  not  the  result  of  chance.  This 
artlessly  artful  narrative  is  the  outcome  of  much 
thought  and  labour  on  the  part  of  the  writer;  but, 
as  Thoreau  says  of  Carlyle,  the  filings  and  sweepings 
and  tools  are  hidden  far  away  hi  the  workshop  and 
the  finished,  polished  product  is  all  we  are  permitted 
to  see.  Considered  merely  as  a  piece  of  clear,  straight 
forward,  idiomatic  English,  this  little  book  is  not 
unworthy  to  rank  with  such  masterpieces  as  "Robin 
son  Crusoe"  and  "The  Pilgrim's  Progress."  The 
story  runs  on  so  smoothly,  the  marvels  dawn  upon 
us  so  clearly  and  succeed  one  another  so  swiftly,  the 
interest  is  so  absorbing,  that  it  is  only  by  a  strong 
effort  that  we  can  wrench  our  attention  away  from 
the  illusion  to  consider  the  means  by  which  the  illusion 
is  produced.  Such  books  are  not  made  every  day. 
As  Sheridan  said,  "Easy  reading  is  extremely  hard 
writing";  only  he  employed  a  more  energetic  adverb 
than  is  agreeable  to  ears  polite.  It  is,  therefore,  not 
surprising  to  learn  that  the  present  story  represents 


242     LIFE   OF   A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

what  German  critics  call  an  Uberarbeitung,  or  work 
ing  over  of  previous  material,  and  that  the  book 
begun  in  1862  was  not  really  finished  until  three 
years  later. 

Ill 

Apart  from  its  fascination  as  a  story  and  the 
artistic  pleasure  arising  from  the  contemplation  of 
skilful  workmanship,  there  are  other  reasons  why 
grown-up  readers  find  their  account  in  a  child's 
story-book.  For  one  thing,  it  possesses  humour.  I 
do  not  mean  to  say  that  young  readers  are  entirely 
unaware  of  its  presence  in  the  book.  On  the  contrary, 
though  I  speak  under  correction  as  one  who  is  not 
a  psychologist,  I  hold  that  one  of  the  first  facul 
ties  the  infant  mind  develops  is  a  sense  of  humour. 
Practical  jokes,  even  at  their  own  expense,  will 
make  babies  laugh  long  before  they  can  walk  or 
talk;  and  they  soon  discover  the  inexhaustible  fun 
of  existence  in  such  a  topsy-turvy  world  as  this.  At 
the  same  time,  in  their  love  of  the  wonderful,  young 
readers  hurry  over  places  where  the  more  mature 
love  to  dwell.  For  instance,  there  was  once  a  kind 
of  book  for  young  persons,  now  happily  extinct, 
which  adopted  an  insufferably  patronizing  air;  every 
normal  child  must  have  resented  it  strongly.  The 
condescending  tone  of  these  sermonettes  is  caught 


EVERYBODY'S   ALICE  243 

in  such  a  passage  as  this:  Alice  hesitates  about 
following  the  plain  direction,  " DRINK  ME!"  on 
the  label  of  a  wonderful  bottle. 

"Xo,  I'll  look  first,"  she  said,  "and  see  whether 
it's  marked,  'poison'  or  not";  for  she  had  read  several 
nice  little  stories  about  children  who  had  got  burnt, 
and  eaten  up  by  wild  beasts,  and  many  other  unpleasant 
things,  all  because  they  would  not  remember  the  simple 
rules  their  friends  had  taught  them:  such  as,  that  a  red- 
hot  poker  will  burn  you  if  you  hold  it  too  long;  and  that 
if  you  cut  your  finger  very  deeply  with  a  knife,  it  usually 
bleeds;  and  she  had  never  forgotten  that,  if  you  drink' 
much  from  a  bottle  marked  "  poison,"  it  is  most  cer 
tain  to  disagree  with  you  sooner  or  later. 

More  obvious  is  the  caricature,  when  the  game  is 
goody-goody  little  verses,  under  the  tyranny  of  which 
so  many  generations  of  children  groaned  in  vain. 
We  do  not  teach  our  children  the  "little  busy  bee" 
now-a-days.  By  slow  degrees,  we  have  come  to  see 
that  suggestion  of  beauty,  the  charm  of  word-music, 
is  not  thrown  away  on  the  young  growing  mind; 
and  that  the  best  is  not  too  good  for  the  children. 
A  comparison  of  such  a  collection  as  Mrs.  Wood's 
"A  Child's  First  Book  of  Verse,"  with  any  of  the 
old  anthologies  "For  Infant  Minds,"  shows  the 
difference  between  ancient  and  modern  points  of 
view.  Dr.  Watts  had  never  been  parodied  before; 
but  who  will  deny  that  he  deserved  to  be?  Alice, 


244     LIFE   OF  A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

after  having  suffered  many  rapid  and  surprising 
changes  in  size,  is  striving  to  establish  to  herself  her 
own  identity.  All  her  intellectual  tests  break  down. 
In  vain  she  tries  to  remember  lessons  in  geography 
and  arithmetic.  In  vain  she  attempts  to  repeat 
"the  little  busy  bee."  The  words  will  not  come 
right. 

"How  doth  the  little  crocodile 

Improve  his  shining  tail, 
And  pour  the  waters  of  the  Nile 

On  every  golden  scale! 

"How  cheerfully  he  seems  to  grin, 
How  neatly  spreads  his  claws, 
And  welcomes  little  fishes  in, 
With  gently  smiling  jaws!" 

Equally  delicious  is  the  parody  of  Southey's  "Father 
William."  Every  one  knows  the  improving  colloquy 
between  the  young  man  with  the  inquiring  mind  and 
the  eccentric  sage.  It  is  hard  to  say  which  are  most 
absurd,  the  questions  of  the  young  yokel,  or  the  old 
gentleman's  replies. 

"You  are  old,  Father  William,"  the  young  man  said, 

"And  your  hair  has  become  very  white; 
And  yet  you  incessantly  stand  on  your  head  — 

Do  you  think  at  your  age  it  is  right?  " 

"In  my  youth,"  Father  William  replied  to  his  son, 

"I  feared  it  might  injure  the  brain; 
But  now  that  I  'm  perfectly  sure  I  have  none, 

Why,  I  do  it  again  and  again." 


EVERYBODY'S  ALICE  245 

And  so  the  improving  conversation  goes  on  from  the 
question  of  the  back  somersault  in  at  the  door  and 
the  demolition  of  the  goose  "with  the  bones  and  the 
beak,"  to  the  climax:  — 

"You  are  old,"  said  the  youth;  "one  would  hardly  suppose 

That  your  eye  was  as  steady  as  ever; 
Yet  you  balance  an  eel  on  the  end  of  your  nose  — 

What  made  you  so  awfully  clever?" 

It  is  only  the  other  day  that  "Punch"  had  a  set  of 
verses  on  the  German  Emperor  in  the  same  strain, 
beginning,  — 

You  are  young,  Kaiser  William. 

It  would  not  be  Wonderland  if  matters  took  their 
natural  course;  and  poor  Alice's  attempt  to  recite 
"The  Voice  of  the  Sluggard"  is  as  unfortunate  as 
her  former  efforts. 

"'T  is  the  voice  of  the  Lobster;  I  heard  him  declare, 
'You  have  baked  me  too  brown,  I  must  sugar  my  hair/ 
As  a  duck  with  its  eyelids,  so  he  with  his  nose 
Trims  his  belt  and  his  buttons,  and  turns  out  his  toes." 

Her  audience  is  anxious  for  an  explanation.  "But 
about  his  toes?"  the  Mock-Turtle  persisted.  "How 
could  he  turn  them  out  with  his  nose,  you  know?" 
"It's  the  first  position  in  dancing,"  Alice  said;  but 


246     LIFE   OF  A   LITTLE    COLLEGE 

was  dreadfully  puzzled  by  it  all  and  longed  to  change 
the  subject. 

I  notice  that  in  later  editions  this  immortal  stanza 
is  continued,  and  a  second  one  even  added:  most 
unwisely,  I  should  say.  Nothing  can  surpass  the 
exquisite  topsy-turviness  of  the  first  quatrain.  There 
is  just  a  sufficient  show  of  meaning  to  lure  the  mind 
on,  in  the  hope  of  finding  more.  The  end  of  the  pleas 
ant  teasing  is  bafflement  and  agreeably  provoking 
excitement. 

There  are  other  points  less  obvious  than  these, 
which  the  younger  generation  of  readers  or  listeners 
is  almost  sure  to  miss;  but  which  catch  the  attention 
of  their  elders.  It  is  hardly  to  be  expected  that  chil 
dren  should  see  the  fun  of  the  Mouse's  expedient  for 
drying  the  bedraggled  animals  which  have  just  es 
caped  the  Pool  of  Tears.  This  is  to  read  aloud  the 
driest  thing  it  knows,  namely,  a  passage  from  a  cer 
tain  famous  historian,  which  our  author  wickedly 
quotes  verbatim.  Children  will  not  perceive  the  satiric 
intention  in  the  turn  given  to  stock  English  phrases 
which  have  been  worn  threadbare  in  everyday  use. 
From  human  lips,  they  are  simply  commonplace; 
but  coming  from  the  curious  denizens  of  Wonderland, 
they  sound  irresistibly  droll.  Such  is  the  remark  of 
the  Lory,  who  clinches  an  argument  with  "I  am 
older  than  you  and  ought  to  know  better";  and  then 


EVERYBODY'S   ALICE  247 

positively  refuses  to  tell  its  age.  Such  are  the  set 
speeches  of  the  Dodo,  who  is  the  representative  Eng 
lish  committee-man.  The  extract  from  Hallam  fails 
to  dry  the  Mouse's  audience. 

"In  that  case,"  said  the  Dodo  solemnly,  rising  to  its 
feet,  "I  move  that  the  meeting  adjourn,  for;  the  imme 
diate  adoption  of  more  energetic  remedies — " 

" Speak  English!"  said  the  Eaglet.  "I  don't  know 
the  meaning  of  half  those  long  words,  and  what's  more, 
I  don't  believe  you  do  either." 

The  jeer  startles  the  Dodo  out  of  his  pomposity 
into  something  like  a  natural  and  direct  manner  of 
speaking. 

"What  I  was  going  to  say,"  said  the  Dodo  in  an 
offended  tone,  "was  that  the  best  thing  to  get  us  dry 
would  be  a  Caucus-race." 

Admirable,  too,  is  the  Dodo's  way  of  meeting  the 
chief  difficulty  arising  from  this  novel  contest.  All 
have  won,  so  all  must  have  prizes,  and  he  solemnly 
bestows  Alice's  own  thimble  upon  her,  as  her  prize, 
with  the  usual  formula,  "We  beg  your  acceptance  of 
this  elegant  thimble."  It  is  not  in  Wonderland  only, 
I  believe,  that  the  recipients  of  testimonials  and  ad 
dresses  and  such  things  are  victimized.  Nor  is  the 
brief  dialogue  between  the  old  crab  and  her  daughter 
repeated  unfrequently  by  those  who  ought  to  know 


248     LIFE   OF  A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

better.     The  Mouse  leaves  the  company  in  a  huff, 
and  the  Mamma  Crab  points  the  moral :  — 

"Ah,  my  dear.  Let  this  be  a  lesson  to  you  never 
to  lose  your  temper!" 

"Hold  your  tongue,  Ma!"  said  the  young  Crab  a 
little  snappishly.  "You're  enough  to  try  the  patience 
of  an  oyster!" 

Again,  the  excuses  made  by  the  Magpie  and  the 
Canary,  for  leaving,  after  Alice's  unfortunate  allusion 
to  her  cat  " Dinah's"  fondness  for  birds,  are  the  con 
ventional  society  excuses,  and,  like  the  other  citations, 
of  the  nature  of  a  formula.  The  satire  is  so  light  and 
impersonal  that  the  correction  is  made  without 
offence. 

The  satiric  intention  is  plainly  to  be  seen  in  the 
summary  of  the  arguments  brought  forward  by  the 
King,  the  Queen,  and  the  Executioner  regarding  the 
Cheshire  Cat.  This  remarkable  animal  had  a  trick 
of  grinning  persistently;  and  besides,  a  habit  of  van 
ishing  gradually,  and  appearing  in  the  same  manner. 
The  manifestations  began  with  the  tail  and  ended 
with  the  grin,  or  contrariwise.  Sometimes  the  grin 
was  visible  for  some  time  after  the  cat  had  disappeared. 
Once  the  King  of  Hearts  wished  to  have  the  Cat  re 
moved,  and  his  royal  Consort  met  the  difficulty,  as 
was  her  custom,  by  ordering  its  immediate  execution. 
But  this  was  easier  said  than  done. 


EVERYBODY'S   ALICE  249 

The  Executioner 's  argument  was,  that  you  could  n  't 
cut  off  a  head  unless  there  was  a  body  to  cut  it  off  from; 
that  he  had  never  had  to  do  such  a  thing  before,  and  he 
was  n 't  going  to  begin  at  his  time  of  lif  e. 

The  King's  argument  was,  that  anything  that  had  a 
head  could  be  beheaded,  and  that  you  were  n 't  to  talk 
nonsense. 

The  Queen 's  argument  was,  that  if  something  was  n 't 
done  about  it  in  less  than  no  time,  she'd  have  every 
body  executed  all  round. 

Here  the  philosopher  glances  at  many  arguments 
just  as  sapient. 

IV 

Forty-nine  years  is  really  a  very  respectable  span 
of  life  for  a  book.  It  has  outlasted  a  whole  genera 
tion  of  mankind,  and  seen  many  revolutions  in  the 
world  of  thought  and  outward  human  activity.  Three 
more  decades  of  such  swift  and  sweeping  changes, 
and  the  book  will  need  footnotes  and  explanations. 
Who  knows  but  some  day  a  Doctor  of  Philosophy 
may  edit  it  with  various  Prolegomena  and  complete 
apparatus  criticus;  or  some  Oxford  man  get  his  re 
search  degree  by  a  thesis  on  it.  Even  now  some  of  the 
allusions  need  clearing  up;  for  example,  those  relat 
ing  to  the  game  of  croquet.  This  gentle  joyous  field- 
sport  is  classed  among  athletic  pursuits  by  university 
students  in  France,  but  elsewhere  it  has  been  driven 


250     LIFE   OF  A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

out  by  tennis  and  golf  till  its  memory  is  in  danger  of 
perishing.  Many  of  the  younger  generation  have  not 
even  seen  the  game,  much  less  played  it.  I  have  done 
both  and  am  therefore  entitled  to  an  opinion  on  its 
merits.  And  I  think  all  those  of  ripe  experience  will 
bear  me  out  in  my  assertions  regarding  croquet.  It 
is  the  curious  property  of  certain  games  to  arouse 
corresponding  feelings  in  the  human  breast.  Cricket, 
for  instance,  arouses  generous  rivalry,  bumble-puppy 
the  desire  for  polite  conversation,  and  modern  football 
the  homicidal  instincts  of  the  primitive  man.  But 
of  all  the  inventions  of  the  Enemy,  commend  me  to 
croquet.  It  was  simply  impossible  to  play  the  game 
and  preserve  your  self-respect.  Every  time  you  left 
the  ground,  your  moral  nature  was  in  a  more  dis 
hevelled,  tattered  condition  than  when  you  went  on. 
The  facilities  which  this  insidious  amusement  provided 
for  unfair  play  were  so  many  and  so  secure  that  it 
was  not  in  poor  fallen  human  nature  to  withstand 
them.  Again,  I  am  willing  to  believe  that  there  have 
been  instances  of  croquet  being  played  in  perfect 
good  temper;  but  I  have  never  witnessed  the  games 
myself  or  conversed  with  any  one  who  had.  On  the 
other  hand,  I  have  seen  a  mature  and  blameless 
matron  try  to  settle  a  dispute  with  a  husband  to 
whom  she  was  devotedly  attached  —  by  means  of 
her  mallet.  The  worst  of  it  was,  that  the  game  was 


EVERYBODY'S   ALICE  251 

a  disease,  a  mania;  the  croquet  microbe  swept  over 
the  whole  land,  and  no  constitution  was  strong  enough 
to  resist  its  attacks.  Sometimes  we  think  that  the 
world  is  at  a  standstill  and  despair  of  any  moral  prog 
ress  whatever.  At  such  times,  we  should  remember 
that  croquet  has  fled  before  the  advance  of  civiliza 
tion.  The  description  of  the  game  as  played  in  Won 
derland  is  hardly  exaggerated :  — 

The  players  all  played  at  once  without  waiting  for 
turns,  quarrelling  all  the  while,  and  fighting  for  the 
hedgehogs;  and  in  a  very  short  time  the  Queen  was  in  a 
furious  passion,  and  went  stamping  about  and  shouting, 
"Off  with  his  head!"  or  "Off  with  her  head!"  about  once 
in  a  minute. 

There  is  another  English  institution  of  greater  an 
tiquity  and  much  more  venerable  than  croquet,  our 
invaluable  system  of  Trial  by  Jury.  Every  now  and 
then  there  is  an  agitation  to  abolish  it,  and  every 
satirist  has  his  fling  at  it.  Dickens,  in  the  famous 
case  of  Bardell  vs.  Pickwick,  aims  his  darts  chiefly  at 
the  methods  of  the  opposing  counsel.  The  climax  of 
Alice's  adventures  is  the  trial  of  the  Knave  of  Hearts 
upon  the  historic  charge  of  stealing  the  tarts;  the 
judge  and  jury  have  the  trial  to  themselves;  and  their 
ways  are  peculiar. 

The  twelve  jurors  were  all  writing  very  busily  on 
slates.  "What  are  they  all  doing?"  Alice  whispered  to 


252    LIFE  OF  A  LITTLE  COLLEGE 

the  Gryphon.    "They  can't  have  anything  to  put  down 
yet,  before  the  trial's  begun." 

"They're  putting  down  their  names,"  the  Gryphon 
whispered  in  reply,  "for  fear  they  should  forget  them 
before  the  end  of  the  trial." 

The  average  juryman  has  not  a  very  good  name  for 
intelligence  and  often  has  to  meet  the  charge  of  mud 
dling  evidence.  Perhaps  no  more  lively  way  of  exhib 
iting  this  failing  than  the  Wonderland  jury's  mode  of 
dealing  with  important  testimony. 

The  first  witness  was  the  Hatter.  He  came  in  with  a 
teacup  in  one  hand  and  a  piece  of  bread-and-butter 
in  the  other.  "I  beg  pardon,  Your  Majesty,"  he  began, 
"for  bringing  these  in;  but  I  hadn't  quite  finished  my 
tea  when  I  was  sent  for." 

"You  ought  to  have  finished,"  said  the  King.  "When 
did  you  begin?" 

The  Hatter  looked  at  the  March  Hare,  who  had  fol 
lowed  him  into  the  court,  arm-in-arm  with  the  Dor 
mouse.  "Fourteenth  of  March,  I  think  it  was,"  he  said. 

"Fifteenth,"  said  the  March  Hare; 

"Sixteenth,"  said  the  Dormouse; 

"Write  that  down,"  the  King  said  to  the  jury,  and 
the  jury  eagerly  wrote  down  all  three  dates  on  their 
slates,  and  then  added  them  up,  and  reduced  the  an 
swer  to  shilling  and  pence. 

This  is,  of  course,  but  a  concrete  way  of  represent 
ing  the  confusion  in  the  mind  of  the  average  citizen 
in  the  jury-box.  A  child  can  grasp  the  fact,  when  put 


EVERYBODY'S   ALICE  253 

in  this  way.  It  would  be  pleasant  to  dwell  on  the 
other  humours  of  the  trial,  but  it  is  better  to  send  the 
curious  to  the  book  itself.  The  Judge's  inclination  for 
Jedwood  justice,  —  verdict  first,  trial  afterward,  — 
his  futile  facetiousness,  his  brilliant  interpretation  of 
documentary  evidence,  the  suppression  of  the  guinea- 
pigs,  the  contumacy  of  the  Cook,  who  refused  to  tes 
tify,  are  too  good  to  be  spoiled  by  compression  and 
must  be  read  in  the  original.  But  one  part  seems  to 
have  been  written  in  anticipation  of  the  Dreyfus  trial 
and  the  part  played  in  it  by  the  famous  bordereau. 

"There's  more  evidence  to  come  yet,  please  Your 
Majesty,"  said  the  White  Rabbit,  jumping  up  in  a 
great  hurry:  "This  paper  has  just  been  picked  up." 

" What 's  in  it?"  said  the  Queen. 

"I  haven't  opened  it  yet,"  said  the  White  Rabbit, 
"  but  it  seems  to  be  a  letter,  written  by  the  prisoner  to  — 
to  somebody." 

"It  must  have  been  that,"  said  the  King,  "unless  it 
was  written  to  nobody,  which  isn't  usual,  you  know." 

"Who  is  it  directed  to?"  said  one  of  the  jurymen. 

"It  isn't  directed  at  all,"  said  the  WTu'te  Rabbit; 
"in  fact,  there's  nothing  written  on  the  outside"  He 
unfolded  the  letter  as  he  spoke,  and  added  —  "It  isn't 
a  letter  after  all:  it's  a  set  of  verses." 

"Are  they  in  the  prisoner's  handwriting?"  asked 
another  of  the  jurymen. 

"No,  they're  not,"  said  the  White  Rabbit,  "and 
that's  the  queerest  thing  about  it."  (The  jury  all  looked 
puzzled.) 


254     LIFE   OF  A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

"He  must  have  imitated  somebody  else's  hand," 
said  the  King.  (The  jury  all  brightened  up  again.) 

"Please  Your  Majesty,"  said  the  Knave,  "I  didn't 
write  it,  and  they  can't  prove  that  I  did:  there's  no 
name  signed  at  the  end." 

"If  you  didn't  sign  it,"  said  the  King,  "that  only 
makes  the  matter  worse.  You  must  have  meant  mischief, 
or  you'd  have  signed  your  name  like  an  honest  man." 

All  these  flashes  of  fun  do  not  by  themselves  make 
up  the  book.  Apart  from  veiled  and  gentle  satire, 
there  is  another  humorous  element  which  can  be  en 
joyed  by  young  and  old  alike,  —  I  am  speaking  of 
English  stock.  This  is  the  incongruous  in  words, 
the  absurd,  or  nonsense.  This  is  language  where 
faint,  illusory  mirages  of  meaning  vanish,  language 
which  triumphantly  resists  all  efforts  at  logical  anal 
ysis  and  sometimes  even  parsing.  For  three  centuries 
it  has  formed  part  of  our  intellectual  bill-of-fare. 
Shakespeare,  who  is  such  a  thoroughly  national  poet, 
is  very  fond  of  this  device.  Witness  Bottom's  "Rag 
ing  rocks,"  etc.,  and  above  all  Ancient  Pistol's  nice 
"derangement  of  epitaphs,"  as  in  the  famous  skit  on 
Marlowe.  "These  be  good  humours,  indeed!"  An 
cient  Pistol  is  surely  the  true  great-great-very-great 
grandfather  of  Mrs.  Malaprop, '  whose  views  on 
female  education  are  so  well  known. 

As  good  an  instance  as  any  is  Touchstone's  mysti 
fication  of  the  country  boy,  Corin. 


EVERYBODY'S  ALICE  255 

Corin.  And  how  like  you  this  shepherd's  life,  Master 
Touchstone? 

Touch.  Truly,  shepherd,  in  respect  of  itself,  it  is  a 
good  life,  but  in  respect  that  it  is  a  shepherd's  life,  it  is 
naught.  In  respect  that  it  is  solitary,  I  like  it  very  well ; 
but  in  respect  that  it  is  private,  it  is  a  very  vile  life. 
Now,  in  respect  that  it  is  in  the  fields,  it  pleaseth  me  well ; 
but  in  respect  it  is  not  of  the  Court,  it  is  tedious.  As 
it  is  a  spare  life,  look  you,  it  fits  my  humour  well;  but, 
as  there  is  no  more  plenty  in  it,  it  goes  against  my 
stomach. 

The  Duchess  runs  Touchstone  close  when  she  gives 
Alice  this  piece  of  excellent  advice :  — 

" Be  what  you  would  seem  to  be, —  or,  if  you'd  like 
it  put  more  simply,  —  never  imagine  yourself  not  to  be 
otherwise  than  what  it  might  appear  to  others  that  what 
you  were  or  might  have  been  was  not  otherwise  than 
what  you  had  been  would  have  appeared  to  them  to  be 
otherwise." 

Most  of  us  will  share  Alice's  bewilderment  over 
this  oracular  saying,  and  agree  that  it  would  be  much 
easier  to  follow  if  it  were  written  down;  and  rejoice 
that  the  Duchess  did  not  carry  out  her  threat, 
"That's  nothing  to  what  I  could  say  if  I  chose." 

There  is  wisdom  as  well  as  wit  in  this  nursery 
classic.  Indeed,  it  was  a  professor  of  metaphysics 
who  described  it  as  "  a  wise  little  book."  The  Duchess, 
as  we  know,  is  very  fond  of  finding  morals  in  every 
thing;  sometimes  she  evolves  mere  incongruities,  but 


256     LIFE  OF  A   LITTLE  COLLEGE 

sometimes  she  hits  the  mark  with  a  maxim  of  uni 
versal  importance.  By  the  simple  misplacement  of  a 
letter  or  two,  she  lifts  the  familiar  old  adage  which 
recommends  economy  in  small  things  into  another 
and  equally  important  sphere.  The  nation  of  shop 
keepers  expressed  the  result  of  long  experience  and 
observation  in  this  tenet  of  proverbial  philosophy, 
"Take  care  of  the  pence,  and  the  pounds  will  take 
care  of  themselves."  At  a  single  stroke,  the  Duchess 
transformed  the  musty  proverb  and  widened  its  ap 
plication  a  thousandfold.  "Take  care  of  the  sense, 
and  the  sounds  will  take  care  of  themselves."  If  only 
public  speakers,  reciters,  orators,  political  debaters, 
lecturers,  preachers,  and  professors  would  attend  to 
this  fundamental  precept,  what  verbiage  should  we 
not  be  spared!  If  on  everyday  matters,  people  paid 
more  attention  to  the  matter  than  to  the  manner  of 
their  discourse,  how  much  spite,  gossip,  and  scandal 
would  cease!  But  how  our  social  intercourse  would 
be  curtailed !  If  we  made  this  a  rule  of  life,  could  we 
maintain  clubs,  or  organize  afternoon  teas? 

In  truth,  underneath  all  this  surface  sparkle  of 
wit,  and  fun,  grotesque,  and  incongruity  flows  a  deep 
serene  current  of  true  wisdom.  Without  the  second, 
the  first  is  impossible.  "It  takes  a  wise  man  to  play 
the  fool." 


EVERYBODY'S   ALICE  257 


From  still  another  point  of  view,  this  child's  story 
book  has  what  may  without  exaggeration  be  called  a 
scientific  importance.  A  German  psychologist  might 
call  it  "Ein  beitrag  zur  Psychologic  des  Traiimens," 
or  a  contribution  to  our  knowledge  of  the  phenom 
ena  of  dreaming.  Perhaps  the  most  widely  observed 
and  most  puzzling  of  all  mental  phenomena  are  the 
phenomena  of  dreaming.  All  peoples,  all  literatures 
have  noted  and  recorded  them.  Except  in  rare 
instances  they  are  the  most  difficult  to  recall  or  to 
fix.  "As  a  dream  when  one  awaketh,"  says  the  text, 
in  order  to  compare  two  of  the  most  fleeting  and 
evanescent  of  things.  "I  have  had  a  most  rare 
vision,"  says  Bottom  the  weaver.  "I  have  had  a 
dream  —  past  the  wit  of  man  to  say  what  dream  it 
was.  .  .  .  Methought  I  was  —  there  is  no  man  can 
tell  what.  Methought  I  was,  —  and  methought  I 
had,  —  but  man  is  but  a  patched  fool,  if  he  will 
offer  to  say  what  methought  I  had."  Dreams  are 
vivid  enough;  but  how  hard  to  recall  them  when 
our  senses  are  completely  alert.  Sometimes  we 
can  re-tell  these  strange  freaks  of  subconsciousness; 
but  this  is  not  the  rule,  rather  the  exception. 
The  main  outlines  we  may  retrace;  but  the  details, 
the  attending  circumstances,  the  atmosphere  of 


258     LIFE  OF  A  LITTLE  COLLEGE 

reality  in  which  the  marvels  took  place,  escape  us 
altogether.  How  can  we  make  words  give  back  im 
pressions  so  vivid,  so  confused,  so  seeming  real  at  the 
time,  so  unreal  afterwards?  Yet  this  most  difficult 
literary  feat  is  accomplished  by  this  child's  story 
book.  The  child  does  not  perceive  this,  is  not,  in 
fact,  meant  to  perceive  this;  but  even  a  hasty  analysis 
will  make  the  author's  intention  clear. 

In  the  first  place,  the  border-line  between  con 
sciousness  and  unconsciousness  is  very  fault  and  hard 
to  define.  The  process  of  transition  from  the  one 
estate  to  the  other  is  gradual.  In  the  book,  the  il 
lusion  is  produced  by  the  closest  mimicry  of  reality. 
A  tired  little  girl,  on  a  hot  summer's  afternoon,  is 
resting  on  a  bank  beside  her  sister,  when  she  sees  a 
white  rabbit  run  by.  The  scene  is  in  England  where 
the  "bunnies"  range  freely  through  the  fields.  There 
is  nothing  more  common  than  the  sight.  Alice  is  still 
awake;  but  when  she  sees  the  creature  take  his  watch 
out  of  his  waistcoat  pocket,  the  line  between  asleep 
and  awake  has  been  crossed.  The  dreaming  has  be 
gun,  but  it  is  only  in  the  last  chapter  when  her  sister 
speaks  to  Alice  that  we  are  actually  told  that  this  is 
a  dream,  "a  most  rare  vision."  True  to  experience 
also  is  the  sensation  of  falling  which  so  soon  follows: 
this  is  produced,  observers  say,  by  the  stretching  of 
the  foot  an  inch  or  two.  In  dreams  we  always  fall 


EVERYBODY'S  ALICE  259 

slowly,  and  feel  that  we  can  control  the  motion.  In 
falling  down  the  rabbit-hole,  Alice  has  time  to  take 
jam-pots  out  of  cupboards,  to  replace  them  in  other 
cupboards  farther  down,  and  even  to  curtsy  as  she 
descends.  Admirably  accurate  also  is  the  short  cross 
current  of  thought,  where  the  remembrance  of  Dinah, 
her  cat,  diverts  the  progress  of  the  main  dream. 

Once  Alice  is  fairly  afoot  in  Wonderland,  marvels 
thicken.  A  whole  pack  of  cards  take  part  in  the  story. 
Gryphons  and  Mock-Turtles  dance  the  lobster  quad 
rille.  Croquet  is  played  with  live  flamingoes  for 
mallets,  and  live  hedgehogs  for  balls.  In  the  mind  of 
Alice,  two  feelings  alternate,  —  calm  acceptance  of 
the  marvellous  as  perfectly  natural,  and  the  faint 
protest  of  reason  against  the  strange  happenings,  or, 
perhaps  I  should  say,  the  attempt  to  rationalize  them. 
Sudden  appearances  or  unexplained  disappearances, 
events  however  strange,  do  not  surprise  us  in  the 
world  of  dreams,  but  generally  the  mind  makes  an 
effort  to  relate  them  [to  ordinary  experience.  When 
the  White  Rabbit  mistakes  Alice  for  the  housemaid, 
and  sends  her  off  for  his  gloves,  she  obeys,  but  is  not 
surprised.  Only  by  degrees  does  the  oddity  of  the 
situation  dawn  upon  her. 

"How  queer  it  seems,"  Alice  said  to  herself,  "to  be 
going  messages  for  a  rabbit !  I  suppose  Dinah  '11  be  send 
ing  me  on  messages  next!"  And  she  began  fancying  the 


260     LIFE   OF   A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

sort  of  thing  that  would  happen:  "Miss  Alice!  come 
here  directly,  and  get  ready  for  your  walk!"  "Coming 
in  a  minute,  nurse !  but  I  Ve  got  to  watch  this  mouse- 
hole  till  Dinah  comes  back  and  see  that  the  mouse  does  n't 
get  out!  Only  I  don't  think,"  Alice  went  on,  "that 
they  'd  let  Dinah  stop  in  the  house,  if  it  began  ordering 
people  about  like  that." 

Another  constant  phenomenon  of  dream  life,  which 
is  most  vividly  portrayed,  is  the  inexplicable  way 
images  present  themselves,  and  then  fade  into  nothing 
ness.  Alice  is  going  to  play  croquet;  she  finds  a  live 
flamingo  in  her  hands;  a  little  later,  the  game  is  over, 
and  no  more  mention  is  made  of  it.  Neither  its  com 
ing  nor  its  going  is  explained.  Nor  is  there  felt  to  be 
any  need  of  explanation.  Everything  happens  in  ac 
cordance  with  a  new  set  of  laws,  which  govern  this 
strange  mental  state  in  which  the  absurd  is  accepted 
as  the  real.  The  most  famous  instance  is  the  Cheshire 
Cat,  whose  grin  appeared  long  before  the  rest  of  the 
animal,  and  remained  when  all  else  of  it  had  vanished. 
And  our  author  follows  his  own  maxim,  "Adventures 
first;  explanations  take  such  a  dreadful  time." 

Another  well-known  sensation  of  dreaming  is  the 
wilful  opposition,  the  malicious  contrariety  of  things. 
For  instance,  you  dream  that  you  are  going  on  a 
journey;  you  get  to  the  station  or  the  steamer  and 
find  that  your  luggage  has  not  come;  or  you  get  into 
the  wrong  train,  or  (my  own  favourite  nightmare) 


EVERYBODY'S   ALICE  261 

you  have  n't  money  enough  to  buy  your  ticket.  So 
Alice  is  ordered  about  by  the  animals,  made  to  repeat 
lessons  and  verses,  snubbed  by  the  Caterpillar,  bored 
by  the  Duchess.  Allied  to  this,  or  another  phase  of 
it,  is  what  may  be  called  reaching  out  after  the  un 
attainable.  You  wish  to  go  somewhere,  or  to  do 
something,  and  find  yourself  perpetually  balked  and 
disappointed.  Alice  sees,  through  the  little  door,  the 
beautiful  garden,  with  its  fountains  and  flowers;  but 
she  is  too  large  to  squeeze  through,  and  when  she  is 
small  enough,  the  key  that  will  admit  her  is  on  the 
glass  table  out  of  her  reach.  It  is  a  pleasure  to  the 
reader,  when,  after  many  mischances,  she  at  last  finds 
her  way  into  that  Enchanted  Ground. 

Interesting,  too,  and  true  to  fact,  is  the  concrete 
way  in  which  the  return  to  consciousness  is  pictured. 
There  is  first  the  return  of  courage,  and  then,  of  reason 
half  alert  and  working  drowsily.  Poor  Alice  has  been 
tremendously  bullied  and  made  to  feel  literally  very 
small;  but  at  last  she  feels  herself  regaining  her  natural 
size.  Then  the  formalities  of  the  court-room,  the  fury 
of  the  Queen  have  no  terrors  for  her. 

"Hold  your  tongue!"  said  the  Queen,  turning  purple. 
"I  won't,"  said  Alice. 

"Off  with  her  head!"  the  Queen  shouted  at  the  top 
of  her  voice.  Nobody  moved. 

"Who  cares  for  you?"  said  Alice  (for  she  had  grown 


262     LIFE  OF  A    LITTLE  COLLEGE 

to  her  full  size  by  this  time).     "You  're  nothing  but  a 
pack  of  cards!" 

At  this,  the  whole  pack  rose  up  into  the  air,  and  came 
flying  down  upon  her;  she  gave  a  little  scream,  half 
of  fright  and  half  of  anger,  and  tried  to  beat  them  off, 
and  found  herself  lying  on  the  bank,  with  her  head  in 
the  lap  of  her  sister,  who  was  gently  brushing  away  some 
dead  leaves  that  had  fluttered  down  from  the  trees  upon 
her  face. 


This  is  as  faithfully  observed  as  it  is  admirably 
worded.  Every  one  knows  how  a  noise  or  slight  acci 
dent  has  the  power  to  suggest,  in  some  cases,  an  entire 
dream.  Here  the  falling  of  the  leaves  on  the  child's 
face  suggests  the  assault  of  the  cards;  and  the  trifling 
fright  and  effort  to  defend  herself  effectually  arouse 
her.  Of  course,  to  describe  the  fairy-tale  as  a 
scientific  treatise  would  be  to  do  it  an  injury;  but 
that  the  fairy-tale  has  this  solid  framework  of  sound 
observation  it  is  impossible  to  deny. 

What  has  been  said  will  go  far  to  account  for 
"Alice's"]  great  and  ever-increasing  popularity. 
There  is  a  very  great  difference  between  careful 
and  flimsy  work;  and  in  order  to  value  the  "Alice" 
books  rightly,  it  is  only  necessary  to  examine 
any  one  of  the  hundred  melancholy  imitations  of 
them;  for  there  is  a  definite  type  or  fashion  of  child's 
story  brought  into  existence  by  their  originality  and 
freshness.  Photographers  have  so  perfected  their  art 


EVERYBODY'S   ALICE  263 

that  the  different  motions  of  a  bird  on  the  wing,  of  a 
horse  in  full  gallop,  of  a  bullet  from  the  muzzle  of  a 
rifle,  are  caught  and  fixed  to  the  most  minute  detail. 
Our  author  has  triumphed  over  difficulties  almost  as 
great.  He  has  made  words,  simple  words  that  chil 
dren  understand  and  delight  in,  do  the  work  of  the 
sensitive  plates.  They  have  caught  and  they  hold  in 
cold  print  those  fleeting  impressions  of  an  experience, 
which  though  universal  is  the  hardest  to  make  com 
prehensible.  The  process  of  dreaming  is,  as  it  were, 
arrested  at  various  stages,  and  we  have  time  to  ex 
amine  each  of  them  as  clearly  as  we  care  to.  Under 
correction,  be  it  stated,  nothing  better  in  this  kind 
exists. 

VI 

Apt  as  the  mere  words  are,  and  cunningly  as  they 
are  joined  together,  they  would  miss  something  of 
their  effect  without  the  pictures.  As  Alice  thought, 
"What  is  the  use  of  a  book  without  pictures  and 
conversations?"  Indeed,  it  is  almost  impossible  to 
imagine  "Alice/'  without  the  illustrations.  Pictures 
are  not  always  an  aid  to  the  understanding  of  books; 
very  often,  they  only  spoil  one's  ideas;  the  illustrated 
books  which  are  unqualified  successes  are  very 
rare.  But  in  this  case  the  talent  of  the  artist 
has  been,  so  happily  inspired  by  the  talent  of  the 


264     LIFE   OF  A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

writer  that  each  heightens  the  effect  produced  by  the 
other. 

The  artist  is  the  second,  not  the  first,  but  he  has 
entered  so  thoroughly  into  the  spirit  of  the  text  that 
his  interpretation  is  well-nigh  perfect.  Without  him, 
we  should  never  have  realized  to  the  full  the  delight 
ful  fatuity  of  the  King  of  Hearts,  or  the  ferocity  of 
his  terrible  consort  with  the  penchant  for  beheading 
all  who  offended  her,  or  the  fussiness  of  "Brer  Rab 
bit,"  or  the  immense  dignity  of  the  Caterpillar.  His 
skilful  pencil  has  created  a  whole  gallery  of  portraits. 
There  is  the  March  Hare  with  the  wisp  of  hay  about 
his  ears,  and  the  Hatter  with  the  advertising  ticket 
on  his  " topper":  the  wild  light  in  their  eyes  tells  the 
tale  of  their  insanity.  In  striking  contrast  to  their 
eccentric  demeanour  is  the  reposeful  manner  of  the 
Dormouse,  whose  ideal  of  life  has  been  so  admirably 
summed  up  as  "Nuts  ready  cracked,  and  between 
nuts,  sleep."  Here  are  many  ingenious  turns  in  the 
plates.  The  most  original  conception  of  all  is  the 
melancholy  Mock-Turtle  who  was  once  a  real  turtle. 
For  this  the  artist  found  no  hint  in  the  text;  so  he 
grafted  the  head,  tail,  and  hind  legs  of  a  calf  on  the 
carapace  and  fore-flippers  of  a  tortoise;  and  a  more 
woe-begone  beast  it  would  be  hard  to  find  in  fact  or 
fable.  I  have  always  wanted  to  know  Ruskin's  opin 
ion  of  the  Gryphon,  having  in  mind  his  famous  crit- 


EVERYBODYS   ALICE  265 

icism  of  the  Lombardic  and  Renaissance  griffins  in 
"Modern  Painters."  Are  the  lion  and  eagle  natures 
perfectly  fused  in  it?  Would  the  motion  of  this  crea 
ture's  wings  give  it  the  earache?  In  my  humble  judg 
ment,  it  seems  a  most  satisfactory  result  of  the  con 
structive  imagination.  As  he  lies  asleep,  in  the  way 
of  Alice  and  the  Duchess,  he  looks  like  a  coiled  steel 
spring.  When  his  hand  is  perfectly  free,  our  artist  is 
perhaps  even  more  amusing.  The  humours  of  the 
trial  scene  are  almost  wholly  original  and  admirable, 
the  finest,  perhaps,  being  the  portraits  of  the  counsel, 
—  an  eagle,  a  crow,  and  a  parrot,  all  in  barrister's 
robes  and  wigs.  In  the  second  part  of  the  trial,  where 
the  King- Judge  is  explaining  so  lucidly  to  the  jury 
the  verses  imputed  to  the  Knave,  all  the  lawyers  are 
sound  asleep.  Most  of  all  are  we  grateful  for  the  pic 
tures  of  Alice.  She  is  not  a  perfect  heroine.  She  has 
her  little  tempers,  is  not  exactly  philosophical  in  dis 
tress;  nor  is  she  altogether  free  from  certain  affecta 
tions  and  a  desire  to  show  off.  But  this  is  the  worst 
that  can  be  said  of  her.  She  is  a  capital  representa 
tive  of  the  finest  race  of  children  in  the  world,  a  sub 
stantial,  graceful,  well-groomed,  innocent,  fresh-faced 
little  English  lass,  "And  sweet  as  English  ah*  could 
make  her."  There  is  a  certain  national  primness  in 
all  her  attitudes,  suggestive  of  nursery  governesses  and 
extremely  well-regulated  families.  She  is  a  little  gentle- 


266     LIFE  OF  A  LITTLE   COLLEGE 

woman,  never  forgetting  her  manners.  The  finest 
grotesque,  to  my  mind,  is  the  picture  in  which  she 
appears  with  the  baby  in  her  arms  that  turned,  dream- 
fashion,  into  a  pig.  The  contrast  between  the  sweet, 
shy,  wondering  face  of  the  lovely  child  and  the  smug 
vulgarity  of  the  little  porker's  phiz  is  simply  delight 
ful.  It  is  Titania,  Queen  of  the  Fairies,  caressing 
Nick  Bottom  the  weaver,  over  again.  Memorable, 
also,  is  Alice's  comment  on  the  transformation:  — 

"  If  it  had  grown  up,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  it  would  have 
made  a  dreadfully  ugly  child;  but  it  makes  rather  a  hand 
some  pig,  I  think."  And  she  began  thinking  over  other 
children  she  knew,  who  might  do  very  well  as  pigs. 

And  who  is  the  artist?  Some  young  lady,  with  a 
talent  for  draughtsmanship?  Some  student  in  the 
Academy  schools?  Not  at  all.  The  illustrator  of 
this  child's  story-book  is  the  veteran  artist,  Sir 
John  Tenniel,  who  for  forty  years  probably  did  as 
much  as  any  one  man  to  form  English  opinion  on 
political  and  social  questions.  For  forty  years  his 
cartoons  had  the  place  of  honour  in  "Punch."  They 
have  been  collected  in  two  volumes,  and  consti 
tute  a  pictorial  history  of  the  period.  They  have 
noticeably  increased,  not  fallen  off  in  power,  and  some 
of  them,  such  as  "General  Fevrier  turned  Traitor," 
on  the  death  of  Czar  Nicholas,  and  "Dropping  the 


EVERYBODY'S   ALICE  267 

Pilot,"  on  the  dismissal  of  Bismarck,  are  of  European 
interest  and  importance.  His  portrait  shows  a  worn, 
hard  face,  rather  stern,  like  that  of  a  general  who  had 
seen  many  campaigns.  It  seems  like  condescension 
for  an  artist  of  this  importance  to  make  pictures  for 
children;  but  Tenniel  did  not  think  it  beneath  him. 
The  opinion  of  Mr.  Pennell,  who  is  well  qualified  to 
judge,  is  that,  from  the  artist's  point  of  view,  Ten- 
niel's  Alice  drawings  are  his  very  best  work. 


VII 

Of  a  more  important  personage  still,  that  is  to  say, 
the  author  himself,  I  have,  as  the  scientific  gentleman 
said  at  the  christening,  no  facts  to  communicate;  or 
at  least  very  few.  Every  one  knows  that  he  was  a 
mathematical  Don  at  the  most  aristocratic  college  in 
Oxford;  and  that  Lewis  Carroll  is  merely  a  pen-name, 
well  exchanged  for  his  real,  jaw-breaking,  patronymic, 
Dodgson.  In  private  life,  he  was  most  pleasant  and 
unassuming.  An  old  bachelor,  he  was  a  most  devoted 
friend  of  children,  delighting  to  entertain  them  in  his 
rooms,  getting  up  plays  for  them  to  act,  and  keeping 
elaborate  mechanical  toys  for  their  amusement.  He 
seems  to  have  been  a  recluse,  representing  the  most 
conservative,  not  to  say  reactionary,  Oxford  type  of 
scholar.  He  avoided  notoriety,  did  not  write  for  the 


268     LIFE   OF  A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

magazines,  was  never  interviewed.  Nine  men  out  of 
ten,  on  making  such  a  hit  as  "Alice,"  would  be 
tempted  to  rush  at  once  into  the  market  with  hasty 
replicas  of  his  first  success.  But  Lewis  Carroll  did 
no  such  thing:  he  waited,  and  in  thirty  years,  wrote 
just  two  other  similar  books.  It  is  surprising  how  little 
is  known  about  him :  a  biography  has  been  published 
since  his  death,  but  the  further  facts  contained  are 
astonishingly  few  and  unimportant.  But  little  more 
is  needed  to  make  him  known  to  us.  The  man  who 
created  Alice  and  told  the  tale  of  her  adventures  is  a 
brother  to  all  the  world.  We  know  him  as  well  as  if 
we  had  lived  under  the  same  roof  with  him.  To  me, 
the  most  striking  fact  is  his  devotion  to  mathematics, 
"the  hard-grained  muses  of  the  cube  and  square." 
In  fact,  I  am  almost  tempted  to  open  a  digression, 
after  the  manner  of  Swift,  on  the  ways  and  traits  of 
mathematicians.  I  have  known  one  or  two  of  first- 
rate  ability  and  I  have  heard  traditions  of  the  demi 
gods  of  the  science.  The  popular  notion  of  the  mathe 
matician  is  a  Mr.  Dry-as-dust,  constructed  out  of 
conic  sections  and  talking  in  algebraic  formulae.  My 
observation  runs  traverse  to  all  this.  The  most  salient 
feature  in  their  characters  is  mirthfulness,  not  to  say 
frivolity.  One  Canadian  who  went  to  the  greatest 
university  on  the  Continent,  and  straightway  solved 
some  problems  which  had  puzzled  the  professors 


EVERYBODY'S   ALICE  269 

themselves,  is  known  in  private  life  as  an  irrepressible 
punster  and  practical  joker.  It  is  the  reaction,  I  sup 
pose,  from  the  strain  of  abstruse  thought.  The  great 
est  of  them  all,  Sylvester,  though  verging  on  three 
score  and  ten,  had  a  weakness  for  writing  tender 
verses  to  young  ladies. 

We  had  —  alas !  we  have  no  longer  —  in  our  own 
little  college  a  fine  example  of  mathematical  mirth- 
fulness.  He  was  not  more  famous  for  his  ability  as  a 
teacher  than  for  his  genial  wit,  his  good  sayings,  some 
times  rather  caustic,  to  say  nothing  of  his  skill  in 
chess,  in  whist,  with  the  flute,  and  with  the  fishing- 
rod.  No  more  convincing  instance  could  be  found  of 
the  exhilarating  influence  of  lifelong  mathematical 
study.  It  is  enough  to  make  us  forswear  every  other 
pursuit  and  branch  of  learning.  Lewis  Carroll  had 
this  gift  of  humour  of  a  very  rare  and  delicate  kind, 
and  a  polished  Oxonian  wit,  like  Melissa's  "  hitting 
all  ...  with  shafts  of  gentle  satire,  kin  to  charity!" 
His  book  is  sufficient  proof  of  this;  and  there  are 
confirmatory  tales  like  those  of  the  French  king  al 
ready  cited. 

The  real  man,  the  essence  of  his  character,  comes 
out  in  an  after  note,  the  appendix  called  "The  Easter 
Greeting,"  first  printed  in  1876.  Few  noted  it,  or 
perceived  its  significance.  Here,  speaking  in  his  own 


270    LIFE  OF  A  LITTLE  COLLEGE 

person,  our  author  lays  bare  his  own  motives,  and 
reveals  unsuspected  riches  of  character.  Its  tenor 
may  be  known  from  one  extract :  — 

And  if  I  have  written  anything  to  add  to  those  stores 
of  innocent  and  healthy  amusement  that  are  laid  up  in 
books  for  the  children  I  love  so  well,  it  is  surely  some 
thing  I  may  hope  to  look  back  upon  without  shame  and 
sorrow  (as  how  much  of  life  must  be  then  recalled!) 
when  my  turn  comes  to  walk  through  the  valley  of 
shadows. 

Not  then,  as  a  mere  jeu  d1  esprit  of  a  busy  thinker, 
not  merely  as  a  diversion  of  the  nursery,  are  we  to 
regard  this  tale  of  Wonderland !  To  the  author,  the 
book  is  a  serious  effort,  an  achievement;  and  we  may 
well  adopt  his  point  of  view;  for  the  significance  of  it 
lies  deep.  It  is  in  fact  one  symptom  of  a  great  change 
which  has  taken  place  about  us  silently,  almost  with 
out  our  knowledge,  a  change  in  our  attitude  toward 
the  child.  The  child's  book  of  the  Early  Victorian  type 
was  severely  improving.  It  still  retained  the  impress 
of  "Sandford  and  Merton."  Its  aim  was  to  improve 
the  child's  mind  by  informing  him  of  certain  facts 
or  his  morals  by  preaching  at  him.  Whatever  jam 
there  might  be  was  rather  poor  and  acid,  and  never 
really  disguised  the  taste  of  the  pills.  The  books 
most  in  favour  were,  frankly,  twaddle  like  the  inex 
pressible  "Beechnut"  and  "Rollo"  types,  or  cheerful 


EVERYBODY'S  ALICE  271 

little  tales  of  very  good  little  boys  and  girls,  who  were 
so  very,  very  good,  that  they  died  very  young  —  to  the 
mingled  distress  and  edification  of  parents  and  friends. 
The  old  notion  was,  apparently,  that  anything  was 
good  enough  for  children.  Though  wit,  grace,  humour, 
harmony,  beauty  might  be  good  for  grown  people,  the 
proper  elements  for  the  tender,  sensitive  intelligence, 
in  process  of  growth,  was  dulness;  cheap  books,  in 
every  sense,  ill-written,  worse  printed,  with  a  few 
coarse  wood-cuts,  filled  the  nursery  shelf.  The  change 
the  last  fifty  years  has  seen  in  the  reading  matter  for 
children  amounts  to  a  revolution.  Consider,  for  a 
moment,  the  portent  of  our  foremost  English  critic, 
Andrew  Lang,  editing,  with  the  help  of  many  schol 
ars,  a  series  of  fairy-tales  for  children;  of  Tennyson 
writing  verses  for  them;  of  the  most  skilful  artists  in 
the  land  making  pictures  for  them.  Think  of  the 
magazines  for  their  exclusive  benefit;  of  the  annual 
output  of  books  made  especially  for  the  little  ones; 
and  it  begins  to  dawn  upon  us  that  this  is  the  chil 
dren's  age.  These  things  would  have  been  regarded 
as  absurd  a  century  ago,  when  children  were  regarded, 
more  or  less,  as  a  necessary  nuisance.  Now,  the  true 
absurdity  lies  in  failing  to  study,  to  understand,  and 
rightly  to  educate  the  child.  To  neglect  the  child  is  to 
check  the  progress  of  the  race.  In  the  school  as  well 
as  in  the  home,  this  great  change  is  manifest.  The 


272     LIFE  OF   A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

rise,  growth,  and  extension  of  the  kindergarten  sys 
tem  has  had  a  most  beneficial  effect  on  the  science 
of  education  and  on  philosophy.  This  new  attitude 
toward  childhood  is  one  of  the  most  important  ideas 
the  nineteenth  century  acquired  and  handed  on. 

Pessimists  talk  gloomily  of  coming  evils,  loss  of 
faith,  the  madness,  misery,  and  sin  of  the  masses,  the 
weakness  of  governments  everywhere,  the  greed  and 
insolent  power  of  capital;  and  there  is  evil  enough  at 
our  very  doors  to  make  the  most  selfish  and  comfort 
able  and  unthinking  of  us  ill  at  ease  at  times.  But 
there  are  great  and  subtle  forces  working  silently 
about  us  for  good.  A  living  book  is  a  great  power. 
Ruskin  says  that  the  imagination  in  its  play  is  either 
mournful  or  mischievous;  and  that  it  is  a  most  diffi 
cult  thing  to  invent  a  fairy-tale  which  is  neither  the 
one  nor  the  other.  But  this,  Lewis  Carroll  has  done. 
His  book  has  influenced  and  will  influence  hundreds 
and  thousands  of  children;  and  that  influence  can 
only  be  for  good.  His  own  attitude  toward  the  work 
of  his  hand  is  most  significant.  Tiny  and  humble  as 
the  book  may  seem,  almost  unimportant,  it  manifests 
the  spirit  of  a  very  wise  Teacher,  who  spoke  many 
weighty  words,  but  kept  his  tenderest  for  the  little 
children. 


VIRGIL 


VIRGIL 

0  degli  altri  poeti  onor^  e  lume 
I 

IF  it  be  written,  as  Capulet's  servant  avers,  that  the 
shoemaker  should  meddle  with  his  yard,  and  the 
tailor  with  his  last,  the  fisher  with  his  pencil,  and  the 
painter  with  his  nets,  no  lengthened  apology  is  neces 
sary  for  a  teacher  of  English  who  meddles  with  Virgil. 
Besides,  I  hope  to  show  that  the  relation  of  Virgil  to 
English  literature  is  closer  than  is  generally  suspected, 
and,  by  so  doing,  explain  and  justify  my  presence  in 
this  particular  classical  galley.  In  order  to  make  my 
position  quite  clear,  I  must  risk  the  reproach  of  ego 
tism  and  offer  frankly  some  autobiographic  details, 
believing  as  I  do  that  my  experience,  in  part  at  least, 
is  typical.  I  speak  as  a  Canadian  to  Canadians. 

At  a  certain  stage  of  his  journey  through  the  wil 
derness  of  this  world,  the  pilgrim  I  know  most  about 
lighted  upon  a  Canadian  High  School,  and  began  the 
study  of  Latin.  He  learned  to  con  mensa,  menses  in 
Harkness,  and  went  through  declension  and  conjuga 
tion  in  the  orthodox  way,  writing  prose  exercises  and 
translating  easy  sentences  until  the  time  came  to  at- 

275 


276     LIFE   OF   A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

tack  a  real  author.  To  this  day  he  remembers  the 
point  in  the  dark  backward  and  abysm  of  time,  when 
he  was  confronted  with  the  page  of  Virgil  containing 
the  lesson  for  the  coming  day.  The  volume  had  come 
down  to  him  from  his  father's  school-days,  and  was 
in  fact  the  text  which  the  learned  Carolus  Ruaeus, 
S.J.,  prepared  for  the  use  of  His  Serene  Highness,  the 
Dauphin  of  France,  in  the  seventeenth  century,  vita, 
interpretation  nota,  index  vocabulorum,  and  all.  The 
lesson  was  a  few  lines  of  the  second  "^neid,"  and 
to  this  day  I  recall  vividly  the  baffled  feeling,  when 
face  to  face  with  the  text.  I  felt  that  there  was  a 
meaning  in  those  words,  if  it  could  only  be  got  at;  but 
they  seemed  all  the  same.  There  appeared  to  be  no 
way  of  distinguishing  them.  They  might  have  been 
a  uniformed  Roman  legion,  close-ranked  in  battle  ar 
ray,  determined  to  keep  out  the  Northern  barbarian, 
or  a  labyrinth  of  grey  boulders  all  the  same  shape  and 
size,  a  labyrinth  without  a  silken  clue,  without  an 
Ariadne.  Little  by  little  the  path  opened,  and  the 
tale  of  Troy  divine,  as  Father  ^Eneas  discoursed  it 
from  his  lofty  couch,  took  form  and  awakened  interest. 
In  spite  of  this  particular  pupil's  idleness  and  lack  of 
proper  instruction,  he  could  not  altogether  miss  the 
subtle  charm  of  the  Roman  poet's  grand  style.  Dull 
as  he  was,  he  did  not  altogether  fail  to  catch  the  pene 
trating  Virgilian  cry  in  the  moving  tale  of  the  Sea- 


VIRGIL  277 

priest  and  his  sons,  and  the  phrase  —  parca  duorum 
Corpora  natorum  —  touched  him  with  its  pathos  and 
could  not  be  shaken  from  the  memory.  But  it  was 
many  a  long  day  before  he  was  to  attain  to  any 
thing  like  a  just  appreciation  of  the  poet  or  his 
work. 

One  reason  for  this  is  that  the  merits  of  Caesar  and 
Horace  are  more  to  the  taste  of  the  average  boy  than 
the  peculiar  excellence  of  the  great  Mantuan.  A 
stirring  story  told  in  crisp  soldier  fashion,  and  well- 
bred  man-of-the-world  sentiment,  wit,  or  playfulness, 
are  much  more  likely  to  impress  the  unformed  mind 
than  the  dignity  of  the  great  Virgilian  style,  or  the 
tenderness  and  nobility  of  the  Virgilian  thought.  Not 
that  I  realized  then  why  I  took  but  little  interest 
in  Virgil:  but  looking  back  from  the  man's  point  of 
view  to  the  boy's,  I  can  understand  it  now.  Another 
reason  lay  in  the  teaching.  I  do  not  wish  to  disparage 
my  teachers.  They  w^ere  both  honest,  painstaking 
men,  who  did  their  duty  by  us.  I  remember  them 
with  affection,  but  I  still  have  something  of  a  grudge 
against  them,  that  they  did  not  give  us  the  guidance 
really  needed.  How  we  acquired  them  I  cannot  say, 
but  the  notion  certainly  did  prevail  in  the  class  that 
the  only  reasons  why  any  one  should  study  Latin 
were  that  it  was  required  for  examinations,  and  helped 
druggists  to  read  the  labels  on  their  jars.  The  trouble 


278     LIFE  OF  A  LITTLE  COLLEGE 

was  that  we  never  saw  the  wood  for  the  trees.  Latin 
words  we  studied;  but  Latin  literature,  never.  Syn 
tax,  grammar,  scansion,  there  was,  good  measure, 
pressed  down,  heaped  together,  and  running  over; 
but  real  feeling  for  the  language  there  was  not.  Still 
less  was  there  any  feeling  for  style.  And  I  am  afraid 
that  in  twenty  years  there  has  been  little  improve 
ment.  Only  last  summer  I  heard  a  lesson  in  Virgil  in 
a  model  Ontarian  High  School;  and  it  had  both  the 
excellences  and  the  defects  of  the  system  under  which 
I  was  trained.  The  fault  does  not  really  lie  at  the 
door  of  the  teachers.  It  is  a  lamentable  fact  that  the 
English  tradition  of  elegant  classical  scholarship  has 
never  really  taken  root  in  this  country,  and  the  study 
of  Greek  and  Latin  literature  has  had  to  make  head 
against  the  crude  democratic  demand  for  immediate 
utility,  which  means  for  an  educational  article  which 
can  be,  as  soon  as  possible,  turned  into  dollars  and 
cents.  The  cause  of  education  in  our  country  could 
hardly  be  better  served  than  by  leavening  our  Cana 
dian  schools  with  some  scores  of  Oxford  men.  This  is, 
of  course,  easier  said  than  done.  The  healthy  Cana 
dian  youth  objects  to  being  patronized;  the  Oxonian 
is  a  delicate  exotic,  hard  to  acclimatize;  and  above 
all,  first-class  men  are  few.  The  happiest  solution 
would  be  obtaining  Canadian  teachers  with  English 
training.  Something  has  been  done  already.  The 


VIRGIL  279 

recent  drawing  together  of  our  foremost  Canadian 
university  and  the  two  famous  homes  of  English 
culture  by  the  Isis  and  the  Cam,  will  set  a  stream 
of  student  emigration  flowing  from  west  to  east,  from 
which  only  good  can  come. 

Before  leaving  the  topic  of  schools  and  school 
masters,  I  wish  to  say  a  word  of  a  third  teacher,  whom 
every  old  pupil  of  a  certain  collegiate  institute  will 
recognize  under  the  pseudonym  of "  Barbarossa."  His 
peculiarity  was  the  possession  of  a  relentless  driving 
power,  for  which  at  least  one  old  pupil  is  grateful. 
There  was  a  book  of  Latin  prose  exercises,  of  which 
the  mystic  number  seventy  had  to  be  prepared  for  a 
certain  examination.  At  this  distance  of  time,  it 
seems  to  me  as  if  every  one  of  those  seventy  exercises 
was  written  on  the  blackboard,  under  his  eagle  eye, 
unto  seventy  times  seven.  Besides  the  knowledge 
this  process  brought  of  some  scandal  about  that  gross 
materialist  Balbus,  who  lived  to  eat,  and  besides  the 
permanent  acquisition  of  some  golden  phrases  like 
Negari  non  potest,  and  Non  est  dubium  quin,  it  is 
plain  that  the  training  was  useful  for  something  more 
than  passing  examinations.  To  those  hours  of  un- 
relaxing  drill  must  be  credited  the  fixing  in  my  mind 
of  a  considerable  vocabulary  and  of  a  feeling  for  sen 
tence-structure.  Should  this  ever  meet  his  eye,  he 
may  feel  assured  that  one  "  unprofitable  grammarian," 


28o    LIFE  OF  A  LITTLE    COLLEGE 

as  old  Harrison  has  it,  is  thankful  for  having  been 
forced  to  work. 

On  reaching  the  university,  I  found  there  a  system 
which  forced  men  to  specialize  from  the  beginning  of 
their  course,  and,  worse  than  that,  formed  the  special 
ists  into  opposite  camps,  Classics,  Moderns,  Mathe 
matics,  Natural  Science,  and  Metaphysics.  Natu 
rally  where  the  kinship  was  closest,  the  feud  was  most 
bitter,  and  the  battle  raged  chiefly  between  the  par- 
tizans  of  the  old  literature  and  of  the  new.  None  of 
us,  in  our  simplicity,  seemed  to  be  aware  that  the 
quarrel  was  two  hundred  years  old,  and  that  the  last 
gun  had  been  fired  by  a  certain  satirical  Dean  of 
St.  Patrick's.  With  the  impetuosity  of  the  undergrad, 
I  threw  up  my  cap  for  the  Moderns,  and  defended 
them  against  all  comers  for  several  years,  confirmed 
in  my  heretical  idea  that  between  the  two  branches 
of  European  literature  there  was  an  irrepressible  con 
flict,  and  that  new  lamps  were  better  than  old.  No 
body  told  me  that  European  literature,  like  European 
history,  is  one,  and  that  the  end  is  not  comprehensible 
without  the  beginning.  Other  interests  crowded  the 
classics  to  one  side  for  a  long  time.  With  some  ink 
ling  of  the  beauty  of  the  "  Eclogues/'  two  "Georgics," 
and  two  "^Eneids,"  I  left  Virgil  behind  me  at  the 
university,  practically  a  book  with  seven  seals. 

The  process  of  awakening  was  a  curious  one.    The 


VIRGIL  281 

specializing  bent  remained  and  worked  out  its  way, 
but  happily,  it  is  impossible  to  study  modem  lan 
guages,  at  any  school  for  specialists,  without  keeping 
up  more  than  a  bowing  acquaintance  with  the  forms 
of  Latin;  and,  though  literature  suffered,  touch  with 
the  language  was  not  altogether  lost.  At  last,  what 
may  perhaps  be  called  a  happy  accident  led  me  back 
to  Virgil.  One  night  in  the  middle  of  a  severe  bout 
of  examination-paper  reading,  I  chanced  upon  a  quo 
tation  from  the  "/Eneid."  I  opened  a  long-disused 
school  Virgil  to  verify  the  reference,  but  as  that  one 
leaf  was  torn  across  I  could  not  rind  it,  and  struck  into 
the  middle  of  the  wonderful  Fourth  Book.  I  found 
that  I  could  get  the  meaning  without  trouble,  and 
that  that  tale  of  Dido's  passion  was  absolutely  fasci 
nating.  It  was  in  a  state  of  enthusiasm  that  I  reached 
the  famous 

Vixi,  et  quern  dederat  cursum  Fortuna  peregi, 

which  has  thrilled  many  a  reader  before  and  since 
Jane  Baillie  Welsh,  aged  nine,  sacrificed  her  beloved 
doll  in  the  character  of  Dido  on  a  pyre  of  lead-pencils 
and  sticks  of  cinnamon.  From  that  night  I  became 
a  Virgilian,  perhaps  deserving  at  times  the  reproach 
addressed  to  the  young  monk  who  found  undue  pleas 
ure  in  the  works  of  the  pagan  author.  From  that  time 
my  interest  burnt  like  a  flame,  and  the  many  hours 


282     LIFE  OF  A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

spent  on  the  beggarly  elements  of  Latin  grammar  and 
Latin  prose  now  yielded  a  rich  if  far-off  interest  of 
literary  pleasure.  For  a  long  summer  holiday  Virgil 
was  my  constant  companion.  Much  of  his  poetry 
was  read  under  skies  as  blue  and  splendid  as  those 
that  overarch  his  own  beloved  Parthenope,  and  hi  the 
music  of  his  verse  I  shall  always  hear  the  soft  breath 
ing  of  summer  airs  through  evergreens,  and  the  wash 
ing  of  the  ripple  against  a  granite  shore. 

Reading  the  bare  text  without  note  or  comment  of 
any  kind,  I  found  many  questions  cropping  up  which 
I  could  put  to  myself  but  which  I  could  not  answer  — 
in  regard  chiefly  to  the  personality  of  the  author,  to 
his  sources,  to  Roman  culture,  to  Roman  religion,  to 
epic  poetry.  These  had  to  wait  until  I  could  get  back 
to  books,  when  I  found  in  Conington's  scholarly 
edition  and  Sellar's  sane,  close-knit  and  learned  mon 
ograph  the  guidance  I  required,  and  in  the  essay  of 
Myers,  such  praise  of  my  author  as  did  my  heart 
good,  and  as  I  felt  accorded  him  justice.  In  these 
and  other  books  which  might  be  named,  students  will 
find  ample  learning,  vouched  for  by  scholars  of  world 
wide  fame.  I  speak  in  no  sense  as  a  classic,  as  one 
with  authority,  but  as  a  barbarian  to  fellow  barbari 
ans.  My  crude  notions  may  call  up  a  gravely  amused 
and  tolerant  smile  to  the  lips  of  the  professed  priests 
and  guardians  of  the  classical  mysteries.  This  is  a 


VIRGIL  283 

record  of  personal  experience,  a  series  of  confidences 
set  forth  in  the  hope  that  others  who  have  also  wan 
dered  in  darkness  may  feel  encouraged  to  grope  for 
ward  to  the  light 

II 

At  the  outset,  I  wish  in  the  most  solemn  and  public 
manner  to  abjure  and  renounce  the  pestilent  heresy 
which  had  long  been  losing  its  hold  upon  me,  that 
there  can  be  real  conflict  between  the  old  and  the 
new.  The  literature  of  Europe  is  one.  Modern  litera 
ture  has  its  roots  in  the  past,  and  no  scholar  or  man 
of  culture  can  feel  that  he  really  understands  the  new 
without  a  knowledge  of  the  old.  Truisms  as  these 
statements  are,  there  is  urgent  need  for  repeating 
them  with  conviction  at  this  time. 

Beginning  the  "^Eneid"  is  like  setting  out  upon  a 
broad  and  beaten  highway,  along  which  countless 
feet  have  passed  in  the  course  of  nineteen  centuries. 
It  is  a  spiritual  highway,  winding  through  every  age 
and  every  clime.  Thousands  have  passed  this  way 
before  you,  and  if  you  give  your  thoughts  free  wing 
down  this  strange  pathway  of  the  fancy,  they  carry 
you  to  many  a  strange  scene,  —  to  the  pensive  cita 
del  of  many  a  lonely  student,  to  many  a  monkish 
scriptorium,  where  pious  brothers  wrote  the  "Pollio" 
as  carefully  as  the  "Horae,"  and  illuminated  its  mar- 


284     LIFE   OF  A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

gins  as  gaily,  —  to  the  maiden  bower  of  many  a  learned 
princess,  a  Lady  Jane  Grey,  an  Elizabeth  prisoner,  — 
to  the  quaint  printing-rooms  of  Aldus  and  Stephanus 
and  Elzevir,  —  to  Avignon  and  Vaucluse,  —  to  the 
court  of  Charlemagne,  —  to  the  Rucellai  Gardens,  to 
the  Esquiline  and  the  pleasance  of  Maecenas.  To 
many  it  has  been  a  via  dolorosa,  down  which  genera 
tion  after  generation  of  flagellants  have  passed  with 
tears  and  extreme  reluctance.  On  that  long  road  there 
are  the  strangest  meetings,  at  "unset  steven."  In  a 
charming  passage  in  "  Ebb-Tide/7  Stevenson  pictures 
two  university  men  on  the  shore  of  an  island  of  the 
Pacific,  finding  common  ground  in  capping  a  line  from 
the  "^Eneid,"  and  he  moralizes  on  the  delights  of 
being  caned  for  Virgil  so  that  it  becomes  a  possession 
for  after  years.  The  price  of  many  stripes  may  not  be 
too  great  to  pay,  but  personally,  I  am  thankful  that 
I  read  only  a  small  portion  of  Virgil  in  school.  The 
bits  I  read  then  are  precisely  those  I  take  least  inter 
est  in  now. 

The  first  impression  the  epic  made  upon  me  was 
that  of  grandeur.  I  could  understand,  without  a  trace 
of  resentment,  why  men  who  were  born  to  such  a 
language,  and  took  pleasure  in  such  a  poem,  would 
look  down  upon  the  speech  of  the  German  and  English 
tribesmen  as  barbarous.  To  go  straight  from  Augus 
tan  Latin  to  "Beowulf"  or  the  "Edda"  or  the  "Ni- 


VIRGIL  285 

belungenlied,"  or  even  to  Shakespeare  and  to  Goethe 
at  their  best,  makes  you  feel  that  the  language  as 
language  is  inferior.  By  comparison,  even  the  English 
of  the  "  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,"  or  the  German 
of  "Faust,"  is,  as  Byron  said,  "our  harsh,  Northern, 
whistling,  grunting  guttural."  Perhaps  the  greatest 
charm  of  Virgil  is  "lo  bello  stile,"  which  Dante  felt 
did  him  such  honour,  and  which  Tennyson  has  termed, 
in  justifiable  superlative,  "the  stateliest  measure  ever 
moulded  by  the  lips  of  man." 

An  example  or  two  will  help  to  make  this  clear. 
Readers  of  "Comus"  will  remember  the  fine  line 
Milton  flings  in  gratuitously  near  the  beginning  — 

An  old  and  haughty  nation  proud  in  arms, 

as  descriptive  of  the  Welsh  temper.  The  line  has  the 
Miltonic  ring  and  the  unmistakable  air  of  Miltonic 
distinction,  but  it  is  really  only  giving  back  in  Eng 
lish  a  Virgilian  line  both  in  word  and  feeling  — 

Hinc  populum,  late  regem,  belloque  superbum. 

What  impresses  the  English  reader  of  Milton,  the 
happy  union  of  sonorous  word-music  with  dignified 
phrase,  and  deep  feeling,  is  present  in  at  least  an  equal 
degree  in  Virgil.  If  we  understand  the  verse  nearest 
to  us,  we  can  hope  to  appreciate  the  one  more  remote. 
If  we  understand  both,  we  have  a  greater  pleasure 


286     LIFE   OF  A  LITTLE   COLLEGE 

in  reading  Milton,  the  pleasure  of  literary  reminis 
cence.  In  a  very  subtle  way,  the  sentiment  of  the 
Virgilian  phrase  seems  to  blend  with  Milton's  in  the 
quoted  line,  to  reinforce  and  to  enhance  it. 

Ill 

At  this  point  it  may  be  well  to  deal  with  what  is 
commonly  termed  Virgil's  plagiarism.  When  young 
persons  are  told  that  the  " Eclogues"  are  an  imitation 
of  Theocritus,  that  the  "Georgics"  are  imitated  from 
Hesiod,  and  that  the  "^Eneid"  is  not  only  modelled 
on  the  "Iliad"  and  the  "Odyssey,"  but  that  whole 
episodes  and  many  lines  are  taken  bodily  from  the 
older  epics,  they  feel  that  their  author  stands  con 
victed  of  literary  petty  larceny.  In  the  rashness  of 
youth,  they  conclude  at  once  that  he  has  shown  great 
weakness,  and  proved  that  his  work  is  inferior  to  that 
from  which  he  borrows.  Now,  Virgil  wrote  for  a  re 
fined  and  learned  court  circle,  with  whom  Greek  lit 
erature  was  a  passion ;  and  it  was  of  deliberate  design 
that  he  modelled  his  work  upon  the  Greek.  The  reap 
pearance  in  the  Latin  poet  of  a  favourite  line,  phrase, 
idea,  situation,  episode  transmuted  into  something 
precious  and  national,  gave  his  Roman  audience  the 
same  pleasure  that  we  feel  in  the  reappearance  of 
Virgil's  phrase  in  Milton's  line.  In  regard  to  what  is 
commonly  called  plagiarism,  I  hold  that  those  should 


VIRGIL  287 

take  who  have  the  power.1  The  literary  weakling 
merely  translates,  and  the  purple  patch  shames  the 
fustian  about  it;  the  man  of  genius  transmutes.  If  he 
take  gold,  or  silver,  or  even  baser  metal,  he  fuses  all 
together  into  a  Corinthian  brass  more  precious  than 
gold  itself.  Dryden  says  rather  flippantly:  "The  poet 
who  borrows  nothing  from  others  is  yet  to  be  born; 
he  and  the  Jews'  Messias  will  come  together";  while 
Voltaire  goes  further,  holding  that  if  Homer  created 
Virgil,  it  was  the  best  thing  he  ever  did.  Shelley's 
judgment  is:  "Virgil,  with  a  modesty  that  ill  became 
his  genius,  had  affected  the  fame  of  an  imitator,  even 
while  he  created  anew  all  that  he  copied";  and  so  the 
list  goes  on.  Lately  the  question  has  assumed  an  in 
ternational  aspect.  Virgil  has  always  been  the  chief 
poet  of  the  Latin  races;  the  French  in  particular  have 
never  wavered  in  their  allegiance  to  him;  but  within 
our  own  century  the  great  impulse  toward  the  study 
of  naive  literature,  ballads,  folklore,  primitive  epics, 
has  tended  to  depose  Virgil  in  favour  of  Homer.  Over 
this  point  a  long  battle  has  raged  between  the  French 
and  the  Germans.  At  present,  there  are  signs  that  in 
English-speaking  countries,  at  least,  there  is  a  clearer 
perception  of  Virgil's  peculiar  excellences,  and  al- 

1  "They  (poets)  import  their  raw  material  from  any  and  every 
where  and  the  question  at  last  comes  down  to  this  —  whether  an 
author  have  original  force  enough  to  assimilate  all  he  has  acquired, 
or  that  be  so  overmastering  as  to  assimilate  him."  —  Lowell,  Chaucer. 


288     LIFE  OF  A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

though  he  may  never  again  reign  supreme,  he  cannot 
long  remain  a  king  in  exile,  without  a  crown  and 
without  devoted  subjects.  Here  again  the  partizan 
is  an  absurdity.  Whoever  aims  at  the  acquisition  of 
taste  or  culture  or  scholarship  should  leave  his  mind 
open  to  the  influence  of  both  the  Latin  and  the 
Greek. 

Another  prevalent  superstition  is  the  notion  that 
the  second  six  books  are  so  inferior  to  the  first  six 
that  they  are  practically  not  worth  reading.  Now, 
Virgil  never  surpassed  the  pictures  of  the  second,  the 
passion  of  the  fourth,  or  the  ethics  of  the  sixth,  but 
it  is  known  that  he  did  not  write  the  books  in  their 
present  sequence.  To  despise  any  of  the  second  six  on 
the  ground  that  they  are  unfinished,  is  in  all  probabil 
ity  to  stultify  one's  self.  No  other  book,  as  a  whole, 
equals  any  one  of  these  mentioned;  but  single  episodes 
and  lines  of  greatest  interest  abound.  To  disregard 
the  last  six  books  is  to  disregard  Turnus  and  Camilla. 
Take  the  seventh,  which  is  not  usually  quoted,  and 
let  us  look  at  two  or  three  passages  in  it  chosen  al 
most  at  random.  All  readers  who  have  enjoyed  the 
short  poem  of  Tennyson's  called  "Will"  remember 
with  pleasure  the  comparison  of  the  strong  man  to 

—  a  promontory  of  rock, 
That  compass'd  round  with  turbulent  sound, 
In  middle  ocean  meets  the  surging  shock, 
Tempest-buffeted,  citadel-crown'd. 


VIRGIL  289 

This  is  really  a  Virgilian  simile  which  the  poet  liked 
so  much  that  he  used  it  twice.  In  the  seventh  book, 
Latinus,  unshaken  in  the  midst  of  confusion,  terror, 
and  adverse  counsels,  is  likened  to  a  rock  amid  the 
sea:  — 

Ille  velut  pelagi  rupes  immota  resistit : 

Ut  pelagi  rupes,  magno  veniente  fragore, 

Quae  sese,  multis  circum  latrantibus  undis, 

Mole  tenet  scopuli;  nequidquam  et  spumea  circum 

Saxa  fremunt,  laterique  illisa  refunditur  alga. 

The  figure  is  borrowed,  the  sentiment  is  the  same ;  and 
whoever  can  appreciate  the  beauty  of  the  Tennyson- 
ian  lines,  or  the  fine  ritardando  close  of  the  "Deserted 
Village"  — 

But  self-dependent  power  can  time  defy, 
As  rocks  resist  the  billows  and  the  sky  — 

may  feel  encouraged  to  hope  that  there  are  new  sources 
of  pleasure  awaiting  him  in  Virgil.  Again,  interpret 
ing  the  older  poetry  in  the  terms  of  English  verse, 
whoever  feels  a  thrill  of  horror  as  the  passing  bell  of 
Constance  de  Beverley  echoes  on  the  night,  is  pre 
pared  to  enjoy  a  similar  beauty  in  Virgil. 

Slow  o'er  the  midnight  wave  it  swung, 
Northumbrian  rocks  in  answer  rung; 
To  Warkworth  cell  the  echoes  rolled, 
His  beads  the  wakeful  hermit  told, 
The  Bamborough  peasant  raised  his  head, 
But  slept  ere  half  a  prayer  he  said; 


29o    LIFE   OF  A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

So  far  was  heard  the  mighty  knell 
The  stag  sprung  up  on  Cheviot  Fell, 
Spread  his  broad  nostril  to  the  wind, 
Listed  before,  aside,  behind, 
Then  couched  him  down  beside  the  hind, 
And  quaked  among  the  mountain  fern, 
To  hear  that  sound  so  dull  and  stern. 

The  Roman  poet's  picture  is  different.  At  the  un 
earthly  sound,  even  inanimate  nature  is  deeply 
stirred.  The  human  touch  is  reserved  to  the  last, 
and  the  comprehending  terror  of  the  mothers  moves 
us  more  profoundly  than  the  panic  of  the  dumb  crea 
tures  of  the  wild.  At  the  deadly  sound  of  the  war- 
horn  blown  by  the  Fury,  — 

omne 

Contremuit  nemus,  et  silvae  intonuere  profundse. 
Audiit  et  Triviae  longe  lacus:  audiit  amnis 
Sulfurea  Nar  albus  aqua,  fontesque  Velini; 
Et  trepidse  matres  pressere  ad  pectora  natos. 

Virgil  never  forgets  the  women  and  the  children. 
War  is  less  terrible  for  the  men,  the  red  slayers  and  the 
slain,  than  for  those  who  must  bide  at  home  and  suffer. 
Virgil's  heart  is  not  in  the  battle,  he  is  really  on  the 
side  of  the  mothers  who  curse  it. 

It  may  be  hard  to  bring  home  the  more  subtle  ef 
fects  of  Virgil's  style,  but  it  is  worth  while  trying.  He 
has  a  pervading  sense  of  the  pathetic,  of  the  tears  of 
human  affairs,  which  penetrates  all  his  verse.  When 


VIRGIL  291 

he  is  girding  up  his  loins  for  the  battles  of  the  final 
books,  he  calls  upon  the  Muses  for  aid :  — 

Pandite  mine  Helicona,  Deae,  cantusque  movete, 

The  sacred  Nine  know  to  what  battles  the  kings  were 
roused,  what  ranked  array  followed  what  leaders  and 
filled  the  plains,  with  what  men  this  Italian  land  which 
bred  me  flourished  in  that  age,  and  with  what  wars  it 
flamed.  For  the  Immortals  can  remember  and  they 
have  power  to  tell  the  tale. 

Ad  nos  vix  tenuis  famae  perlabitur  aura. 

Surely  one  is  not  mistaken  in  seeing  here  something 
more  than  the  plain  statement  that  barely  a  faint 
breath  of  the  fame  of  these  deeds  has  come  down  to 
us  of  the  later  age.  Surely  there  is  some  feeling  of 
the  contrast  between  the  knowledge  of  the  Immortals 
and  shifting  inscience  of  men;  and  it  cannot  be  mere 
fancy  to  suspect  behind  the  words  a  sense  of  "things 
done  long  ago  and  ill-done,"  the  very  sentiment  of 
Wordsworth's 

—  old,  unhappy,  far-off  things 
And  battks  long  ago. 

The  style,  then,  of  Virgil,  his  own  way  of  utter 
ing  his  thought,  whatever  that  thought  may  be,  is 
a  perpetual  delight.  The  air  of  distinction  is  main- 


292    LIFE   OF  A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

tained  from  first  to  last,  without  effort  and  without 
harshness.  At  the  same  time  it  would  be  hard  to 
find  ten  consecutive  lines  without  some  turn  of 
phrase,  some  single  epithet,  some  woven  harmony  of 
words,  on  which  to  linger  in  pleased  surprise.  Beside 
Shakespeare's  Gothic  rudeness  of  form  and  his  divine 
disorder,  beside  Goethe's  long-winded  'dawdling,  his 
"sprawl"  after  his  "spring,"  Virgil  gives  you  the 
sense  of  finished  workmanship.  The  temple  is  com 
plete  from  floor  to  frieze.  If  the  master-builder  wished 
to  change  the  setting  of  some  single  stone,  or  carve 
some  capital  or  cornice  more  delicately,  no  other  eye 
may  scan  the  fault.  It  is  only  echoing  the  praise  of 
centuries  to  call  Virgil's  an  unequalled  style. 

IV 

Apart  from  the  constant  pleasure  derived  from  the 
mere  form,  the  chief  impressions  Virgil's  poetry  left 
upon  my  mind  were  three  —  an  impression  of  civili 
zation,  an  impression  of  tenderness,  an  impression  of 
patriotism. 

The  man  of  the  present  day  finds  himself  more  in 
accord  with  Virgil  than  with  any  other  poet  of  an 
tiquity,  for  the  man  of  the  present  day  lives,  con 
sciously  or  not,  under  the  influence  of  Christianity; 
and  Virgil  is  the  most  Christian  of  the  pagan  poets. 


VIRGIL  293 

Horace,  the  Epicurean,  who  called  him  "animae  dimi- 
dium  meae,"  said  also  of  him  that  earth  bore  no  whiter 
soul.  The  men  of  the  middle  ages  found  in  him  a 
prophet  of  the  Christ.  Now  whatever  else  Christi 
anity  has  done,  it  has  greatly  enlarged  the  range  of 
our  sympathies  and  deepened  our  emotions.  It  has 
made  the  world  thoughtful  and  sad.  This  thoughtful 
sadness,  this  range  and  depth  of  emotion  are  charac 
teristic  of  Virgil.  Those  French  and  German  trans 
lators  of  the  Middle  Ages  who  made  his  epic  a  tale  of 
chivalry  and  /Eneas  and  Turnus  knights-errant  have 
been  often  laughed  at  for  their  simplicity.  But  were 
they  not  unconsciously  right?  Virgil  is  chivalrous  in 
his  feeling,  with  the  chivalry  of  the  "Idylls  of  the 
King."  He  understands  as  well  as  the  wildest  ber 
serker  who  ever  died  under  a  score  of  foemen's 
swords,  the  fitting  end  of  a  warrior's  life.  Geraint  — 

—  crowned 
A  happy  life  with  a  fair  death,  and  fell 

In  battle  fighting  — 

And  Virgil's  fighters  — 

,  dant  funera  ferro 
Certantes,  pulchramque  petunt  per  volnera  mortem. 1 

1  Cf.          an  sese  medios  moriturus  in  enses 

Inferat,  et  pulchram  properet  per  volnera  mortem  ? 

Cf.  also  ibid.,  xi,  154  f.  £neid  rx,  400  f. 


294    LIFE   OF   A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

This  primitive  feeling  is  no  stranger  to  such  a  modem 
as  Nelson.  But  his  conception  of  a  "  fair  death  "  is  far 
grander  than  that  of  mere  mad,  hot-blooded  killers. 
England's  great  captain  on  the  quarter-deck  of  the 
Victory  at  Trafalgar,  presaging  triumph  over  a  con 
tinent  in  arms,  mindful  only  of  his  duty,  his  country's 
honour,  and  the  conduct  of  this,  his  last  battle, 
and  forgetful  of  standing  weaponless,  the  stars  on  his 
breast  marking  him  for  death,  is  a  type  of  courage, 
of  which  the  berserker  never  dreamed.  But  Virgil 
feels  the  stir  of  sympathy  with  all  disastrous  fight. 
Like  Milton,  he  understands  that  defeat  is  not  defeat, 
if  the  will  remain  unconquerable.  Such  speeches  as  — 

Tu  ne  cede  mails;  sed  contra  audentior  ito, 
Quam  tua  te  Fortuna  sinet. 

and 

Disce,  puer,  virtutem  ex  me,  verumque  laborem; 
Fortunam  ex  aliis 

breathe  the  "deliberate  valour"  of  the  modern  man. 
It  is  to  ringing  words  like  these  that  his  heart  responds 
most  quickly.  They  brace  the  spirit  for  more  than 
battle,  the  life  that  is  all  battle. 

In  his  sadness,  too,  Virgil  speaks  for  our  later  world. 
The  most  majestic  example  of  this  feeling  is  the  won 
dering  exclamation  of  ^Eneas  that  souls  should  wish 
again  for  earth :  — 


VIRGIL  295 

0  pater!  anne  aliquas  ad  coelum  hinc  ire  putandum  est 
Sublimes  animas,  iterumque  in  tarda  reverti 
Corpora?  quae  lucis  miseris  tarn  dira  cupido? 

Such  a  thought  shows  how,  nineteen  centuries  ago, 
the  Roman  poet  bowed  beneath 

—  the  heavy  and  the  weary  weight 
Of  all  this  unintelligible  world. 

Throughout  the  "^Eneid"  there  is  a  sense  of  the  com 
plexity  of  human  affairs,  a  sense  of  world-wide  inter 
ests  bound  up  with  the  exploits  and  responsibilities  of 
a  dominant  race.  The  acts  of  the  hero  demand  an 
empire  for  a  stage  on  which  the  eyes  of  the  world  are 
fixed.  Beside  the  struggle  of  Rome  and  Carthage,  of 
Octavius  and  Antony,  the  death  of  Harold  of  Hast 
ings,  of  King  Olaf  under  Svald  seem  without  signifi 
cance.  These  wars  are  but  as  the  flocking  of  kites 
and  crows;  but  Virgil's  ^Eneas  and  Augustus  bear  up 
the  world  upon  their  shoulders. 

The  tenderness  of  Virgil,  his  sympathy  with  the 
weak,  is  perhaps  his  most  lovable  quality.  His  men 
tion  of  the  sons  of  Laocoon,  of  Camilla's  baby  lips 
and  slender  limbs,  of  Silvia's  pet  stag,  of  Dido's  hands 
dabbled  in  blood,  all  show  what  a  deep-hearted  poet 
he  was.  His  references  to  the  mothers  are  especially 
noteworthy.  A  warrior  is  slain,  but  at  the  moment 
of  his  hero's  victory,  Virgil's  thought  turns  to  the 


296     LIFE   OF  A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

mother  of  the  dying  boy,  and  to  the  laborious  token 
of  her  love. 

Transiit  et  parmam  mucro  .  .  . 

Et  tunicam,  molli  mater  quam  neverat  auro. 

One  reference  has  been  made  already  to  the  mothers 
who  have  cause  to  quake  for  fear.  Two  more  may 
serve  to  show  how  well  Virgil  understands  the  human 
heart.  The  youthful  warriors  in  glittering  squadrons 
ride  out  of  the  city  gates;  the  women  cannot  go,  but 
from  the  battlements  they  follow  them  with  their 
eyes,  till  they  are  merely  a  cloud  of  dust. 

Stant  pavidse  in  minis  matres,  oculisque  sequuntur 
Pulvereamque  nubem,  et  fulgentis  sere  catervas. 

Again  in  his  wonderful  picture  of  a  city  sacked,  he 
sees  the  women  clinging  to  the  doorposts  of  their 
homes,  and  pressing  their  lips  to  them  in  despair. 

Turn  pavidae  tectis  matres  ingentibus  errant; 
Amplexaeque  tenent  postes,  atque  oscula  figunt. 

Virgil's  poetry,  especially  the  "^Eneid,"  I  have 
likened  to  some  great  Roman  road  joining  the  utmost 
bounds  of  a  widespread  country.  Like  a  road,  parts 
of  it  are  famous  because  way-worn  men  have  rested 
at  them  and  found  there  refreshment  and  delight. 
In  other  words,  some  lines  have  gathered  significance 


VIRGIL  297 

from  their  association  with  great  names.    The  most 
famous,  perhaps,  is  the  infinitely  musical 
Manibus  date  lilia  plenis: 

which  Dante  heard  the  Blessed  chanting  in  the  Para 
dise  of  God.  To  some  these  words  are  sacred,  because 
they  recall  England's  veteran  statesman  strewing 
flowers  on  the  laureate  hearse  of  Tennyson,  as  he  lay 
in  the  Abbey,  that  high  altar  of  our  race.  All  roads 
lead  to  Rome,  and  Virgil's  great  poem  takes  us  straight 
to  imperial  Rome,1  the  mistress  of  the  world.  The 
reason  for  the  existence  of  the  "^Eneid"  is  Virgil's 
patriotism.  "The  impulse  both  of  poets  and  histori 
ans  was  to  build  up  a  commemorative  monument; 
not  as  among  the  Greeks,  to  present  the  spectacle  of 
human  life  in  its  most  animated,  varied  and  noble 
movements."  2  In  this  year  of  reminiscence 3  it  should 
not  be  hard  for  any  subject  of  the  British  Empire  to 
understand  Virgil's  pride  in  his  country.  Place  our 
bead-roll  of  heroes  beside  the  file  of  those  whom 
Anchises  pointed  out  to  ^Eneas  in  the  under-world,  or 
those  whose  deeds  were  fashioned  on  the  famous 

shield  — 

—  clipei  non  enarrabile  textum  — 

1  The  city  which  thou  seest  no  other  deem 
Than  great  and  glorious  Rome,  Queen  of  the  Earth, 
So  far  renowned,  and  with  the  spoils  enriched 
Of  nations.  Paradise  Regained,  rv,  44-47. 

1  Sellar,  287.  »  Written  in  1897. 


298    LIFE   OF   A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

set  the  battle  with  the  Armada,  or  Trafalgar  beside 
"Actia  bella,"  and  we  thrill  with  poet's  own  deep 
emotion.  The  most  famous  expression  of  it  is  in 
sublime  close  of  Anchises'  speech:  — 

Excudent  alii  spirantia  mollius  aera, 
Credo  equidem;  vivos  ducent  de  marmore  voltus; 
Orabunt  caussas  melius;  ccelique  meatus 
Describent  radio,  et  surgentia  sidera  dicent. 
Tu  regere  imperio  populos,  Romane,  memento: 
Hae  iibi  erunt  artes;  pacisque  imponere  morem, 
Parcere  subjectis,  et  debellare  superbos. 

The  similar  limitations  and  the  similar  destiny  of 
our  race  should  bring  home  to  us  the  spirit  of  these 
majestic  lines.  One  English  writer,  to  whom  per 
verse  criticism  would  deny  the  name  of  poet,  has  in 
fused  it  into  English  verse.  Macaulay  is  the  most 
patriotic  of  historians,  and  he  never  fails  to  awaken 
the  patriot  passion  in  the  breast,  even  in  singing  those 
glorious  legends  of  early  Rome,  which  none  but  a 
brave  and  high-minded  race  could  have  imagined.  In 

The  stone  that  breathes  and  struggles, 
The  brass  that  seems  to  speak;  — 

he  comes  very  close  to  the  first  part  of  the  extract. 
The  manifest  destiny  of  Roman  civilization  is  brought 
out  in  such  ringing  lines  as  these :  — 

Leave  gold  and  myrrh  and  jewels, 

Rich  table  and  soft  bed, 
To  them  who  of  man's  seed  are  born 

Whom  woman's  milk  hath  fed. 


VIRGIL  299 

Thou  wast  not  made  for  lucre, 

For  pleasure,  nor  for  rest; 
Thou,  that  art  sprung  from  the  war-god's  loins, 

And  hast  tugged  at  the  she-wolf's  breast. 

Leave  to  the  soft  Campanian 

His  baths  and  his  perfumes; 
Leave  to  the  sordid  race  of  Tyre 

Their  dyeing  vats  and  looms: 
Leave  to  the  sons  of  Carthage 

The  rudder  and  the  oar: 
Leave  to  the  Greek  his  marble  Nymphs 

And  scrolls  of  wordy  lore. 


Thine,  Roman,  is  the  pilum: 

Roman,  the  sword  is  thine, 
The  even  trench,  the  bristling  mound 

The  legion's  ordered  line; 
And  thine  the  wheels  of  triumph, 

Which  with  their  laurelled  train 
Move  slowly  up  the  shouting  streets 

To  Jove's  eternal  fane. 


V 

But  it  is  high  time  for  me  to  show  some  reason  for 
trespassing  on  the  preserves  of  the  Professor  of  Clas 
sics.  The  indirect  influence  of  Virgil  upon  English 
literature  is  seen  first  in  the  sway  of  what  may  be 
called  the  Troynovant  legend.  It  can  be  traced  to 
Geoffrey  of  Monmouth  in  the  twelfth  century.  Virgil 
was  not  only  transformed  into  a  magician  by  mediae 
val  fantasy,  but  his  name  was  one  to  conjure  with. 


300     LIFE   OF   A    LITTLE   COLLEGE 

In  imitation  of  ^Eneas's  voyage  from  Troy  to  found 
Rome,  there  springs  up  a  companion  piece,  the  voy 
age  of  Brutus,  his  descendant,  to  Albion,  to  found 
New  Troy,  Troynovant,  or  London.  A  parallel  tra 
dition  is  found  in  France,  whence  the  myth  was  con 
veyed  to  England  in  the  authority  Geoffrey  used  and 
which  he  called  vetustissimus.  The  idea  flattered  the 
national  pride.  Wace,  a  Jerseyman,  made  a  French 
poem  on  Geoffrey's  history,  and  this  Layamon,  a 
priest  of  Ernley,  again  translated  and  amplified  into 
the  poem  known  as  "Brut."  The  basis  must  be  a  col 
lection  of  Celtic  tales;  and  from  the  outset,  Geoffrey 
and  his  romance  were  fiercely  assailed,  as  a  fabler 
and  fables.  Very  surprising  is  the  stream  of  poetry 
this  Archdeacon  of  Monmouth  in  the  twelfth  century 
set  free  to  flow  as  it  would.  Down  to  the  middle  of 
the  seventeenth  century  the  myth  was  generally  re 
garded  as  fact.  Even  Milton,  although  he  cannot 
help  feeling  suspicious,  will  not  rashly  set  it  aside,  and 
devotes  a  large  part  of  the  first  chapter  of  his  history 
to  recounting  "descents  of  ancestry  long  continued, 
laws  and  exploits  not  plainly  seeming  to  be  borrowed 
or  devised."  Elizabethan  literature  bristles  with 
allusions  to  this  legend.  As  might  be  expected,  Dray- 
ton  makes  ample  use  of  it  in  his  "Polyolbion";  and 
finds  it  necessary  to  protest  against  the  destructive 
criticism  of  the  time. 


VIRGIL  301 

And  they  but  idly  talk  upbraiding  us  with  lies 
That  Geoffrey  Monmouth,  first  our  Brutus  did  devise, 
Not  heard  of  till  his  time  our  Adversary  says. 1 

Jasper  Fisher  has  a  play  with  the  title  "Fuimus  Troes 
—  The  True  Trojans,"2  in  which  occur  stanzas  like 
these :  — 

Ancient  bards  have  sung 

With  lips  dropping  honey, 
And  a  sugared  tongue 

Of  our  noble  knights: 
How  Brute  did  giants  tame, 

And  by  Isis  current, 
A  second  Troy  did  frame, 

A  centre  of  delights. 


This  history  of  England,  "Antiquitee  of  Faery 
Land,"  is  the  book  Sir  Guyon 3  reads  in  the  castle  of 
Alma.  From  this  the  material  for  the  first  English 
tragedy  "Gorboduc"  was  taken,  as  well  as  the  ma 
terial  for  the  greatest,  "Lear."  Here  also  we  find 
Cymbeline  and  "Sabrina  fair."  It  is  little  wonder 
Sir  Guyon  looked  into  it  "greedily."  The  material 
of  these  old  tales  is  certainly  Celtic;  but  for  our 
purpose  the  significant  fact  is  their  connection  with 
Virgil's  epic,  and  the  faint  shadowing  of  the  original 
tale. 

1  Polyolbion,  x,  243-55;  cf.  ibid.,  219-327. 

2  Dodsley's  Old  Plays,  vn,  411. 

3  Faerie  Qiteene,  bk.  u,  canto  x. 


302     LIFE  OF  A  LITTLE  COLLEGE 

The  history  of  the  Virgil  translations  in  English 
begins  at  least  as  early  as  the  setting-up  of  the  first 
printing-press  in  the  scriptorium  at  Westminster. 
Caxton  made  and  printed  a  prose  translation  of  the 
great  Mantuan.  This  performance  did  not  please 
Gavin  Douglas,  and  to  shame  the  Southron  and  vin 
dicate  Virgil,  he  made  a  translation  of  his  own.  This 
again  was  used  by  the  ill-fated  Earl  of  Surrey  in  his 
translation.  Phaer  turned  the  first  ten  books  of  the 
"^Eneid"  into  the  lolloping  "  four  teeners  "  so  fashion 
able  toward  the  end  of  Elizabeth's  reign,  and  the 
work  was  finished  by  Twine.  The  men  of  the  seven 
teenth  and  eighteenth  centuries  are  not  fond  of  trans 
lating  Virgil.  Ovid  and  Horace  are  more  to  their  taste. 
But  the  number  of  those  who  have  been  tempted  to 
try  their  hand  at  the  hardest  of  tasks  is  very  great. 
Waller  englished  part  of  the  fourth  ".Eneid,"  as 
did  Surrey;  Denham  translated  the  second  as  well  as 
the  fourth  into  blank  verse.  Roscommon  turned  the 
sixth  "Eclogue"  into  verse,  and  Cowley,  part  of  the 
second  "Georgic."  " Glorious  John"  gave  up  a  large 
part  of  his  old  age  to  making  what  is  still  in  all  prob 
ability  the  best  complete  version  of  Virgil  in  our 
language.  Addison,  as  might  be  expected  from  his 
character,  was  drawn  to  Virgil.  His  essay  on  the 
"Georgics"  is  said  to  have  been  written  when  he  was 
twenty-one.  Besides,  he  turned  the  fourth  "  Georgic," 


VIRGIL  303 

except  the  story  of  Aristasus,  into  Popian  couplets, 
and  the  episode  of  Achemenides  in  the  third  "Jineid" 
into  Miltonic  blank  verse.  Few  get  beyond  the 
fourth  book;  but  mention  should  be  made  of  the  ad 
venturous  William  Hamilton,  of  Bangour,  who  versi 
fied  the  incident  of  Lausus  and  Mezentius  in  the 
tenth.1  Our  own  age  has  been  especially  rich  in  trans 
lations  of  Virgil.  Professor  Conington  made  two,  one 
in  the  metre  of  "Marmion"  and  one  in  prose.  The 
last  poet  to  undertake  the  entire  "/Eneid"  was 
William  Morris.  He  used  the  long  "  four  teeners " 
which  were  so  effective  in  "  Sigurd  the  Volsung,"  but 
they  do  not  please  all  English  critics.  Mr.  Frederic 
Harrison  speaks  of  the  work  with  scant  respect  as  a 
"marry  come  up,  my  merry  men  men  all  sort  of 
ballad."  2  A  really  satisfactory  version  of  Virgil  in 
English  is  yet  to  be  made. 

VI 

More  direct  influence  still  upon  our  literature  is 
distinctly  traceable  to  Virgil.3  Langland  knows  him 
only  as  the  hero  of  a  grotesque  mediaeval  myth ; 4  but 

1  Chalmers,  xv,  649. 

2  At  the  same  time  Mr.  Myers,  who  must  be  an  excellent  judge, 
pronounces  it  to  be  "brilliant  and  accurate."    Who  shall  decide  when 
doctors  disagree? 

3  It  is  impossible  within  the  limits  of  this  lecture  even  to  outline 
Virgil's  influence  upon  pastoral  poetry  from  Spenser  down. 

4  Piers  Plowman,  bk.  xii,  43  f. 


304     LIFE   OF   A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

his  contemporary,  Chaucer,  finds  room  for  him  in 
his  "Hous  of  Fame."  In  this,  he  summarizes  the 
"^neid"  and  slurs  over  everything  but  the  love- 
story.  Dido  facinates  him.  He  can  hardly  tear  him 
self  away  from  the  entrancing  tale.  Not  content 
with  what  he  finds  in  Virgil,  he  borrows  from  Ovid's 
"Heroides,"  and  at  last,  like  Shakespeare  afterwards, 
he  brings  in  frankly  his  own  variations  upon  the  given 
theme;  — 

Non  other  auctor  alegge  I, — 

and  he  puts  a  new  speech  in  Dido's  mouth.  Dido  also 
figures  in  his  galaxy  of  "good  women."  One  other 
sign  of  his  appreciation  of  Virgil  is  seen  hi  the  way  he 
renders  the  apparition  of  Venus:  — > 

—  that  day, 

Going  in  a  queynt  array; 
As  she  had  been  a  huntresse, 
With  wynd  blowings  upon  her  tresse. 

This  is  the  story  which  has  enthralled  the  imagina 
tion  of  the  world.  The  great  Elizabethans  teem  with 
references  to  it.  Nash  and  Marlowe  made  a  drama  1 
of  it.  But  in  this,  as  in  many  other  things,  Shake 
speare  teaches  us,  as  no  one  else  can.  His  references, 
outside  of  "Troilus  and  Cressida,"  are  nearly  all  to 
some  aspect  of  the  Carthaginian  queen's  unhappy 
1  Cf.  Hay  ward,  The  Iron  Age,  pt.  n. 


VIRGIL  305 

love ;  but  he  takes  most  glorious  liberties  *  with  his 
subject.  According  to  Virgil,  Dido  slew  herself  as 
soon  as  the  false  Trojan's  galleys  were  hull  down  on 
the  horizon;  but  Shakespeare  has  another  vision. 
Two  young  lovers  lately  wed  are  watching  the  moonlit 
heavens  in  the  gardens  of  Belmont.  They  give  them 
selves  up  to  the  loveliness  of  the  scene,  and  are  so 
full  of  new-found  happiness  that  they  can  endure  the 
least  shadow  of  a  far-off,  romantic  melancholy:  — 

In  such  a  night 

Stood  Dido  with  a  willow  in  her  hand 
Upon  the  wild  sea-banks  and  waved  her  love 
To  come  again  to  Carthage. 

Full  moonlight  on  the  sea!  Can  anything  be  fuller 
of  yearning,  except  the  single  lonely  figure  on  the 
shore  with  its  hopeless  signal  of  welcome?  But 
Shakespeare  sees  life  in  the  round.  Moving  as  is  the 
love-tale  of  Dido,  it  has  even  its  ridiculous  side.  Two 
epithets  do  it  all:  "widow  Dido,"  "widower  .Eneas."  2 
Spring  is  the  only  mating-time.  The  loves  of  the 
middle-aged  do  not  move  us  except  to  laughter. 

Nearer   our   own  day,  English  poets   have  given 
utterance  to  their  personal  sentiments  in  regard  to 

1  Turberville  (Of  Dido  and  the  Truth  of  her  Death]  justifies  her 
against  the  testimony  of  Virgil;  he  holds  she  slew  herself  to  avoid 
shame. 

2  Tempest,  n,  i. 


3o6     LIFE   OF   A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

Virgil.  Dry  den  calls  him  his  divine  master.  Cowper 
says  that  he 

should  have  deem'd  it  once  an  effort  vain 
To  sweeten  more  sweet  Maro's  matchless  strain, — 

until  Mr.  Hayley  gave  him  a  copy  of  Heyne's  edition. 
Wordsworth  and  Matthew  Arnold  find  interest  in  the 
poet's  tomb.  Wordworth's  greatest  joy  is  in  the  land 
scape  — 

that  delicious  Bay 

Parthenope's  Domain  —  Virgilian  haunt; 
Illustrated  with  never-dying  verse, 
And  by  the  Poet's  laurel  shaded  tomb, 
Age  after  age  to  Pilgrims  from  all  lands 
Endeared.1 

Arnold  feels  the  contrast  between  this  and  Heine's 
resting-place  in  trim  Montmartre.  His  feeling  for 
Virgil  is  warmer  than  Wordsworth's.  The  irregular 
verse  bears  the  accent  of  deep  feeling. 

Ah,  I  knew  that  I  saw 

Here  no  sepulchre  built 

In  the  laurelPd  rock,  o'er  the  blue 

Naples  bay,  for  a  sweet 

Tender  Virgil. 

In  that  fine  series  of  appreciations,  her  "Vision  of 
Poets,"  Mrs.  Browning  fails  in  her  praise  of  Virgil,  all 
the  more  dismally,  as  the  lines  on  Lucretius,  which 

1  Memorials  of  a  Tour  in  Italy. 


VIRGIL  307 

come  next,  are  a  brilliant  success.  But  the  last  is 
the  best.  It  is  curious  to  think  that,  after  five  cen 
turies  of  modern  English  literature,  we  had  to  wait 
until  the  very  end  for  an  adequate  essay  like  Mr. 
Myers's,  for  an  adequate  poem  like  Tennyson's. 
The  latter  written  at  the  request  of  the  Mantuans  not 
only  masses  in  a  consummate  way  the  chief  excellences 
of  Virgil,  but  it  shows  how  near  English  verse  can 
reach  to  his  rich  music,  and  is  instinct  with  one  great 
poet's  gratitude  to  another.  With  it,  as  with  some 
jewelled  and  embroidered  band,  too  precious  for  such 
use,  I  draw  together  these  my  poor  belated  gleanings 
from  Virgilian  fields:  — 

Roman  Virgil,  thou  that  singest 

Ilion's  lofty  temples  robed  in  fire, 
Ilion  falling,  Rome  arising, 

wars,  and  filial  faith,  and  Dido's  pyre. 

Landscape-lover,  lord  of  language, 

more  than  he  that  sang  the  Works  and  Days; 
All  the  chosen  coin  of  fancy 

flashing  out  from  many  a  golden  phrase; 

Thou  that  singest  wheat  and  woodland 

tilth  and  vineyard,  hive  and  horse  and  herd; 

All  the  charm  of  all  the  Muses 

often  flowering  in  a  lonely  word. 

Thou  that  seest  Universal 

Nature  moved  by  Universal  mind; 
Thou  majestic  in  thy  sadness 

at  the  doubtful  doom  of  humankind; 


3o8     LIFE   OF   A   LITTLE   COLLEGE 

Light  among  the  vanish'd  ages; 

star  that  gildest  yet  this  phantom  shore; 
Golden  branch  amid  the  shadows, 

kings  and  realms  that  pass  to  rise  no  more; 

Now  thy  Forum  roars  no  longer, 

fallen  every  purple  Caesar's  dome  — 

Thou,  thine  ocean-roll  of  rhythm 

sound  for  ever  of  Imperial  Rome. 

Now  the  Rome  of  slaves  has  perished, 

And  the  Rome  of  freemen  holds  her  place, 

I,  from  out  the  Northern  Island 

sunder'd  once  from  all  the  human  race, 

I  salute  thee,  Mantovano, 

I  that  loved  thee  since  my  day  began, 
Wielder  of  the  stateliest  measure 

ever  moulded  by  the  lips  of  man. 


Or  be 

CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 

U    .    S    .   A 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  5O  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


DEC    11  1938 


AUG    8    1S45 


-  ,--, 

: 


JAN  2  9  1952 


WKIQ 


JUN    41962 


LD  21-95m-7,'37 


a. 


YB  05678 


297625- 


*& 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


